“Madame,” Stephen made reply, “this damosel is promised to be my wedded wife,—the night is chill.”
“Thy wedded wife!” screamed all those ladies, and the Queen said, “Is the world up-so-down?”
But whether from fear of all that rout of peasants, or whether from desire to know what manner of maid this might be that should wed Etienne Fitzwarine, they drew aside to make a place for her, and Godiyeva put out a hand to help her in.
“And for the wretch that dared thrust in his hand to take us,” quoth the Queen, “let him be tied at tail of coach and so dragged to London. See to 't, Etienne!”
“Madame, pray you pardon, but this may not be,” said Etienne. “The man is a leader among the people, and beloved.”
He stood aside and looked out on the vast throng, and she, following his eye, grew a little pale.
“The man hath provocation,” Etienne continued; “his daughter was laid hands on roughly by the King's tax-gatherer, not many days past.”
“Let 's begone!” said the Queen hastily. “Christ, Mary, keep us safe! Give me my beads, Godiyeva, and do ye all say a rosary, and be silent!”
So they rode away to London, with Stephen standing on the step on one side, and Long Will and John Horn riding on the other on the alderman's horse. And Wat Tyler sat on the box seat beside the coachman; but Stephen did not apprise the Queen of this.
In Southwark, as they rode, was mischief let loose, for the Marshalsea Prison and King's Bench were set wide open and in a blaze, and all the released prisoners making merry in the streets. Hot cinders fell on the coach, and Wat had much ado that it should not catch fire. To westward was another glow, where the people destroyed Lambeth Palace.