S naught to do," said Calote. “My life is like an empty house.”
And if her father admonished her that she fill it, she answered him: “I am too poor. My richesse is spent.”
So the summer waned, and Richard's red vengeance began to pale. The people and the King alike sickened of blood. Here and there a man was pardoned. Those two aldermen that bade the peasants come into London by the Bridge and Ald Gate in June were let go free.
“If thou canst come at the King, he will surely set free Stephen Fitzwarine,‘ urged Will. ’'Steadfast' is never Richard's watchword, natheless he doth not willingly harm his friends. He 'll do them kindness in secret, if he may not openly.”
“How may I endure to live out the length of my days to my life's end?” sighed Calote. “Is naught to do.”
Nevertheless, about this time she began to be seen about the gates of the Palace at Westminster, and craved leave to enter; but the guards made mock of her and drove her away. As oft as thrice in the week they did this, but she came again.
One day, 't was October's end and presently Parliament would be met together at Westminster, Calote stood on London Bridge, on the drawbridge, and saw a barge come down Thames. And when the barge was rowed beneath the drawbridge, Calote looked down, and the King sat therein with madame his mother, and certain lords and ladies of the court. One of these was Godiyeva.
The folk on the bridge peered over, and there was muttering, for the people no longer loved the King.
“Goeth to Tower for a night and a day to discover what prisoners be harboured therein and to consider their case,” said one, and spat in the water.
Calote turned about and ran back to London, and so on to the Tower gate. An hour she waited, and then came forth Stephen's gaoler.