“Well, take thy life! Thou shalt go free,—if thou tell all,” said Richard, with averted face. “Lift the fellow to his knees, thou,—yeoman guard,—and wipe his slobber off my shoes!”
So when Jack Straw was got to his knees and a stout yeoman on either side holding him up underneath his arm-pits, for that he was weak with fright and lack of food, he began to tell his tale.
“'T was in Long Will's cot o' Cornhill,—the Chantry Priest, him that writ the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman,—'t was in his house this plot was hatched.—Water, my lords!—Pity, my tongue is twice its true size!”
“Verily, I believe it is so,” said Richard; he would not look at Jack Straw, but sat with face turned to one side and eyes cast down. “Give him to drink,” he said.
The Mayor caught a silver flagon from the table and held it to Jack's lips, and when he had drunk, my Lord of Oxford ground the flagon beneath his heel and kicked it shapeless into a corner.
“'T was o' Cornhill, lordings, and Will was there, and the light o' love, his daughter, and Wat Tyler,—and—and—Fitzwarine”—
“And thou,” said Richard.
“But I was no leader in this Rising, sire. Wat would be leader,—a proud, wrathful man. And the traitor Fitzwarine hath evil entreated me oft, for that he would hold second place to Wat.”
“Where was John Ball?” asked Salisbury.
“John Ball also was there,” cried Jack very eager. “'T was he set us all agog in the beginning with his preaching and prating.”