“By the rood of Chester!” shouted Thomas of Woodstock, “and thou art come hither red-handed from slaughter and pillage of the noblesse to cast insult in the teeth of the King?—A message from yonder rabble?—A plot, a murder, belike!”
“Dost thou think so?” quoth Stephen very quiet, and drew sword and dagger and laid them on the table.
“My Lord of Buckingham, we are sore tried,” said Salisbury, “and 't would seem we had just cause for anger these three days; natheless, let peasants rage; 't behoves us keep our tongues and tempers. Prythee give again his sword and dagger to Etienne Fitzwarine.”
“Nay, my lord,” Stephen interposed; “'t was I was over-hasty to lay them down. I 'll take them up and bear no malice.—Beseech you, where is the King?”
“Gone above to look forth from a turret,” Henry answered. “I would have borne him company, but he 's in the sulks.”
“My lords, pray you, let me go bring hither the King,” said Stephen, and he went into that corner of the room where a door opened upon the stair. Young Henry followed, plucking at his sleeve, with:—
“An thou canst, make my cousin to see here 's his time to play the man. But he 's a poor thing.”
“My lord, 't is not so simple to be a king,” Stephen answered coldly.
“To know what one will have, and to take it,—is not this enough?” the boy said with scorn. But Stephen left him and climbed the stair.
The dusk of summer came in at the windows of the dark turret, and in one of the windows Richard sat, hugging his knees.