“Thou must to the dais; 't is the King's pleasure,” said Stephen.
“Nay, not I,” she pleaded, “not in this company. 'T is my father shall tell a tale to the King.”
“Sweet, we may not gainsay the King in this matter,” Stephen made answer, sad. “Have no fear; shall none harm come to thee.”
So she went with him and kneeled down before the King, and Richard, when he had lifted her up, said:—
“Look ye, mes doux amis, this damsel, when that my grandfather Edward lay dead, was first in England to do me homage.” He bent his head as he were musing, and then: “She told me I should be a great King.” His mouth and eyes smiled whimsical; anon, looking to the door of the Council Chamber whence he was come, he flung forth his arm: “Yonder 's the King!” he said. “Hath as many heads as old dragon, and every head gnaweth other.—Natheless,”—and now he set his chin defiant,—“natheless, I have not signed Richard's name to this remedy of the poll-tax.” Then, swift, defiance melted, and his lips curled to a rueful smile,—“Not yet.”
“Alack, for the cote hardie!” murmured de Vere; but Richard turned on him:—
“Have it, thou!” he cried. “I am anoint; what though I rule England body-naked,—I 'm a king.” He made as to do off the coat, but when the Queen said: “Sire, my Lord of Oxford can wait; 's not a-cold,” he laughed and buttoned it again.
“Tell them who 's a-cold,” he said to Calote. “Tell them, as thou hast told me that day long since,—as Etienne hath told me this seven month he 's come home. Last night in my dream I heard a bell tolling, out of the midst of jollité; and one said that King Richard had betrayed his people and was dead.”
“Richard, sire, sweet son!” the Queen protested. “How dost thou abash this fair company with thy mournful speech. Is 't for this cause we are met together, to prate of pauvreté? We be bounteous almsgivers, all. Here am I foiled of the ending of good Master Gower's ballad,—and Dan Chaucer bretful of new tales.”
“I pray you pardon, madame, I had forgot,” Richard said soberly, and sat him down again at her side. “This business of the tax hath fretted me. 'T is weary waiting, to sit by the while counsellors wrangle. But if they knew that that I know!”—He clenched his right hand, then shook himself with an impatient sigh: “Where is thy father, maiden,—he that writ the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman,—is he here? Let him come hither, Etienne.”