And old Salisbury sighed, and hung his head as he were suddenly grown feeble.
So Jack Straw was borne away to his death, and the nobles crowded around Richard, buzzing approval.
“And Fitzwarine, sire?” said Robert de Vere.
The boy pressed his hands against his eyes:—
“Have ye no pity, wolves?” he groaned.
“Natheless, sire, he is a traitor,” persisted Buckingham. “Is no time to set free traitors.”
“I have not set him free,” said Richard. “Let that suffice. If ye are thirsty for blood, go down into Cheapside; Mayor Walworth shall set up anew the block that was there, and strike off the heads of all such as were known to be murderers of Flemings. The widows of the dead weavers may wield the axe an they will. Here 's sport, my lords! Now, pray you leave me! I must make ready for this pilgrimage of vengeance mine uncle Buckingham counselleth.”
“The jongleuse and her father, sire?” ventured Sir John Holland.
“I may not take keep of women and poets,” Richard answered. “'T is my friends only that I betray.”