“Disperse them only, my lord. Though there be many loyal, natheless we do know of sureté that there be certain among them like to this Tyler, would make themselves King. Thyself hast seen how they are easily led this way and that, for good or ill. Remember the Archbishop, sire.”
There shot a spasm of anguish athwart the King's face. “I will lead them into the fields. They shall be dispersed,” he said with a loud, unsteady voice. “But I have set them free. I will not betray them! I will not betray them!”
And riding away he was presently in the midst of the peasant rout, laughing, leading them to Clerkenwell. But his cheeks were fever-bright, and the look of fear faded not out of his eyes. With quips and merry gests he lured them on, and he bethought him how that Stephen had said that night in the Tower, “They 'll be led like little children,” and so they were.
“Hearken, my people,” said Richard, wistful, “none standeth between us any more. Would ye that Wat Tyler had made himself your King?”
“King Richard!—King Richard!” they shouted.
“None standeth between us any more, mes amis,—neither noble, nor common man”—
“Nor archbishop,” cried one, but a tumult of voices smothered him, with:—
“Nay—'t was Wat slew the Archbishop!”
And when they saw the cloud on Richard's brow, they cried yet more loud, as in a frenzy:—
“'T was Wat!—'t was Wat! Long live King Richard!”