“For thy soul's sake I bring thee a priest, Master Fitzwarine,” he said; “'t is long since thou madest confession.”
And behind him in the doorway stood a tall man, tonsured, garbed in russet.
“O my son!” cried Will, “how hast thou suffered!” And he picked up Stephen off the floor and carried him to the window-crack. And the gaoler emptied the water-jug in Stephen's face, and presently went out and left those two alone.
Stephen opened his eyes slow, wearily.
“Steadfast!” he whispered, and smiled.
And then he said:—
“Calote?”
“She waiteth, praying. In the beginning we dared not plead for thee; for that we knew the King was in no mood to hearken, so was he played upon by the nobles, and his pride harrowed. By now there is rumour that he beginneth to sicken of bloodshed. Haply he 'll be in mood to pardon when he is come back to London.”
“Come back?—Where is the King?”
“Sweet son, he goeth up and down the countryside, letting blood. Robert Tressilian, the new Chief Justice, is with him, and his uncle Buckingham. They show no mercy.”