“Ay,” Richard assented. “Prythee pardon, friend; I have not forgot that good turn thou did me and all England yesterday. But give me the sword. I will wear the sword that hewed off that traitor's head.”
“Sweet nephew,” said Buckingham, “'t is very certain Fitzwarine was likewise traitor.”
“Wilt thou forget those bold words he spake in this chamber, sire, three days agone?” cried Sir John Holland.
“Wilt thou forget that insult to madame the Queen, who must needs ride with his wanton that night on Blackheath?” sneered Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford.
“O sire,” said Jack Straw soft,—“is 't known of these gentles as how Fitzwarine traversed England a year and more, in company of this same leman, stirring up revolt?”
There went up a shout of wrath and amaze from all those lordings:—
“Sire!” they cried, and every eye bent on the King craved vengeance.
“Pah!” said he. “'T is not question of Etienne, but of this worm that speweth venom. Let him be despatched forthwith!”
Then Jack Straw cast himself down on the floor and writhed on his belly as far as the King's feet, crying:—
“Mercy!—Grace!—Mercy!—Mercy!—I will reveal the plot. O sire, I will unfold the secrets of this Rising! Give me only my life, my life, sire, my life!”