And Stephen had snapped his sword in twain across his knee.
“This is the sword that hewed Wat Tyler's head off his body,” he said. “I have done with swords. Thy Majesté hath noblesse a plenty to serve thee; 't was proven in June, when Wat Tyler fell. I might not count the sword-thrusts at that time. But of common folk, peasants and labourers, there is a dearth in England. And wherefore this is so, none knoweth better than thou, sire.”
Richard stirred, restless: “'T is the old Etienne, was never afeared to find fault with his king,” said he, and would have made a jest of this matter, but laughter came not at his bidding.
“Thou hast need of loyal labourers, sire. So will I serve thee. If Saint Francis set his hands to labour, so may Stephen Fitzwarine, and withouten shame.”
“By the Rood!” cried Richard. “Thou art lord of a manor;—born into this condition. These things be beyond man to change. They are appointed of High God.”
“Natheless, God helping me, these things shall be changed, sire. Presently, o' my manor, mayst thou see a-many free labourers tilling each man his own field. And Stephen Fitzwarine shall be one.”
“Thou 'rt mad!” screamed the King. “Dungeon hath darkened thy wits.”
“So methought, sire,” said the gaoler, “but hath more wits than most,—hath not turned a hair.”
“Now, by Saint Thomas of Canterbury!” Richard shouted, “I—I—nay,—I 've signed thy pardon,—I 'll keep faith,—this once.”
Then his humour changed and he began to laugh very loud:—