“Sire,” said he, “leave scourging till this business is ended. Is not yet time. Thou must be leader of this people. Already thou hast set them free from their lords and them that held them in bonds; now must they be set free from their own fellows that would make them slaves,—from Wat Tyler and Jack Straw. If thou overturn these, the people is in the hollow of thy hand.”
“Then will I chastise!” snarled the boy. “They shall feel the rod. They have slain a good man and a priest,—the man that stood next the King in this realm of England. These dogs have slain an archbishop,—and shall I alone suffer for it? Ah!”—He cast up his right hand in menace and sobs shook him. “I loved them,—I loved my people, and thus do they requite me! Will scourgings in my body or in their own wipe off this blot of holy blood wherewith they 've stained my soul?”
“Oh, my lord,” said Stephen, “if we bear our brothers' sins, what do we more than Christ Jesus that bore our sins in His Body on rood? Yet was He sinless; and so art thou sinless as concerning the death of the Archbishop.”
Richard put out his hand and plucked Stephen's sleeve: “Dost believe it?‘ he cried, and there went a shudder through him. ’Ah, but—but—when Simon said, 'I know a way,'—I knew what 't was to mean,—and yet—I went forth and left him. Etienne, Etienne,—I am afeared I knew what 't was to mean! I am afeared I knew!—I am so afeared!”
Etienne kneeled down and set his hands on the boy's shivering shoulders, and looked in the frighted eyes:—
“This were impossibilité to know, sire,” he said. “Say it not again,—nor think it. Already I have forgotten thy words. Thou couldst not divine the will of most high God. Thou art not afeared. Stand up and be the King!”
Slowly, his eyes staring in Stephen's eyes, Richard got to his feet. “I—I—could not—know!” he gasped. “I could not know!—I must forget; yes. Even a king could not know. But I shall alway fear I”—He broke off and stood silent.
When he spoke again he said, “What noise is that?”
“The prentices and men of London are killing Flemish weavers, sire, not far away. 'T is a hellish mob.”
“Presently they shall have a glut of blood,” said the boy very quiet. “I 'll see to 't. Go now, and bid them meet their King on the morrow at Smithfield.—Nay,—have no fear, I 'll be gentle with these beasts. I 'm not all fool.”