“Get on! The plot!” Richard interrupted impatiently.
“Mercy, sire,—grace!—'T was agreed as how all knights, squires, and gentlemen should be slain, and the King made to lead this revolution. For this cause came Wat to Smithfield yester morn, to take the King. Mercy!—And until all England was risen up, the King should be called leader of the people. Then should we slay all the lords.—Ah, pity, gentles!—And when was none left to succour the King,—Wat Tyler would have had the King slain.—Sire, not I, but Wat!—Grace!—Pardon!”
Richard's face was still as stone. Jack Straw hung limp betwixt the yeomen, and well-nigh swooned, moaning the while.
Thrice Richard moved his lips and no sound came; at last he said, “Anon?”
“The—the—bishops after, sire, and all monks, canons,—rectors, to be slain. When no one survived, greater, stronger, or more knowing than ourselves, we should have made at our pleasure laws by which the subjects would be ruled.”
The room was all a-murmur with rage. Richard arose and signed to the guard to take up Jack Straw:—
“Take him to the place in the courtyard where Archbishop Simon was murdered,‘ he said in a cold voice. ’Rip out his guts, lop off his legs and arms. Let his head be borne throughout the city on a pole, and what remaineth cut in four pieces and send by fleet-foot messengers to north and south and east and west of this foul, traitorous England.”
Jack Straw heard with starting eyes. Then strength came to him and he shrieked and struggled:—
“Thy promise, sire, thy promise!—Thou didst give me life! Mercy!—Thy promise!”
“One thing 't would seem a king is free to do,” Richard answered him. “'T is to break promises.”