Calote came and knelt on both her knees before Richard.
“Thou, also, shalt be a great king,” she cried.
But he shook his head.
“I do not know,” he mused. “How little am I! The nobles are great, and they do not love me,—not as my father loved. Men say mine uncle hath it in his heart to kill me.”
“O sire! the people love thee!” cried Calote. “The people is thy friend; they hold to thee for thy father's sake; and if thou be friend and brother to them, be sure they will hold to thee for thine own. Wilt thou be king of common folk, sire? Wilt thou right the wrongs of thy poor? Now God and Wat Tyler forgive me if I betray aught. But hearken! The people has a great plot whereby they hope to rise against this power of the nobles, this evil power that eateth out the heart of this kingdom. If this thing come to pass, wilt thou go with the nobles, or wilt thou go with thy poor?”
“I hate the nobles!” cried Richard passionately. “Have I not told thee? I hate mine uncle the Duke, and Thomas of Woodstock that tosseth me in air as I were a shuttlecock. I hate Salisbury, and Devon,—yea, even the Earl of March, Etienne. They do not love me. Their eyes are cold; and when they smile upon me I could kill them. I will go with the common folk, they are my people.”
“There will not be a king so great as thou, nor so beloved!” cried Calote. “But this that I told thee is secret.”
“Is 't?—Well!” said Richard eagerly,—“I do love a secret. Etienne will tell thee how close I have kept his own.”
He swelled his little chest and spread his legs.
“Now am I right glad. Mine uncles have their secrets. So will I likewise. And I am King.”