The King took the pen very peevish, and, “Bring hither a stool, Etienne, or tablets,‘ he fretted; ’how may I sign on my knee?”
Then he began to read the paper, and anon he cried, “Etienne, Etienne, shall we sign?—I like it not.”
“Nay, Richard,” the Queen admonished him, “hast thou not able counsellors, that thou must make a jest of so weighty matters with popinjays? My Lord Archbishop waits. Make an end, sweet son, and let us sup.”
But the boy was in no mood to be ruled by his mother.
“Master Chaucer 's a gray-beard,—hath done me good service,” he said.—“What sayst thou, Poet?”
“Sire,—these five year I 've been about thy business in France and Flanders and Italy; I may not speak with sureté concerning what hath happed,—or shall be to hap,—in England. Natheless, of all peasant folk in all lands ever I saw, our folk of England is most sturdy, honest, true. Take them to thy friend, King Richard.”
“Which is to say,” quoth Richard,—and made as he would rend the parchment.
“My Lord!” cried Simon the Archbishop, and took it hastily out of his hand.
Richard laughed and kicked over the stool; then turned he sudden on Will Langland with:
“Prythee, Master Clerk, what will the people do if we send again to Essex and Kent to protest that the poll-tax be paid?”