“Go down, cousin!” he said sharply, without turning his head.
“'T is Etienne Fitzwarine, sire,” Stephen ventured.
“Ah, thou!” exclaimed the boy. “Come hither, mignon!” and held out his arms.
“On every hand they thwart me,” he complained. “Mine Uncle Buckingham counselleth one way and Salisbury another. If I speak, they do not listen; and if I rest silent, my cousin Henry hath fixed me with scornful eyes, as who should say, 'Were in thy shoes,'—Christ, but I do hate my cousin Henry!—Etienne, methinks my star hath slipped,—I was not meant to be a king. One day 't will be discovered; then they 'll cry out for Lancaster.”
“My lord,” Stephen soothed him, “hast thou heard how they have cried out all this day in London streets, and at the burning of the Savoy, 'We will have no King called John?'”
“His name is Henry,” the boy answered, “'t is a froward child;” and then passionately: “Natheless, tell me 't is not true! Tell me,—tell me!”
“Look out of window, sire, on Saint Catherine's Hill, where thy people wait thee! So shall these fears and follies be dispelled.”
“Let us to the battlement to breathe,” said Richard. “Is more to see; and I 'm smothered here, walled in with my cousin.”
So they went up; and all around the sky was red, but not with the sun, for that was set three hours past. There was a smell of ashes on the air. Near by, to eastward, on Saint Catherine's Hill, the peasants were encamped. Which is to say, as many as were not lodged in the city; Will Langland had a score and six lying close in his cot, and Dame Emma harboured threescore and ten; there were some slept in Paul's Churchyard, and others in aldermen's soft beds,—that had never known but straw. Nevertheless, the most part of them was on the hill, and this was so close beneath the Tower that Richard, leaning on the battlement, might descry their faces very plain by the light of the camp-fires.
“And dost thou bid me look on these and so be assured I am a king?” he said, and laughed, the better to swallow a sob.