“I am in so close attendance upon the King that I do never go into the city,” he whispered.
“'T is well,” answered Calote.
“'T is not well; 't is very ill,” said the squire.
“Doth the King forget the wrongs of the poor?” asked Calote.
“Do I forget that thy hair is golden and thine eyes are gray?” the squire retorted. “Thrice in the week, at the very least, he will have me come to his bed at night and read thy father's Vision till he sleeps.”
“Alas! and doth he sleep when thou read'st that book?” murmured Calote.
“Ah, my lady! wherefore wilt thou so evil entreat me?” Stephen pleaded. “I may not open my lips but thou redest my meaning awry. The King hath a loving heart and a delicate fancy, but he is over-young. Thy father's Vision is a sober tale; 't is an old-fashioned music; haply I read it ill. Natheless, Richard is constant. When he is in a great rage with his uncles, or the Council, or the Archbishop, and they require of him what he is loth to perform, I do soothe him of his weeping with the memory of that secret. But of late he groweth impatient; there be stirrings in him of manhood; he is taller than thou, albeit not yet thirteen. He demandeth to know when the people is to rise up. He saith, 'Seek out thy bien-aimée and bid her tell the people I am weary with waiting; I want to be a king,—for I am a king.' Last month he spake to me very lovingly of Walworth and Brembre and sundry others, merchants of London, that come often to the palace. 'I will be friend with merchants,' he saith; 'thy Calote spake truth, they are more loving than mine uncles.'”
“But the merchants be not the poor!” said Calote. “Oh, tell me true, hath he revealed aught to these rich merchants?”
“Nay, I trow not,” Stephen answered. “But how may Richard know aught of the poor, save and except beggars? How may I know, that live in the palace and see the might and wit of nobles? How may I know that this Rising will ever be arisen? Ah, Calote, do they play upon thy pity, these dullard poor? I have seen my father, when I was a little child, quell a dozen of rebellious villeins with but a flash of his eye. They dared not do him hurt, though he stood alone. Power is born with the noble, 't is his heritage.”
“Wilt thou leave thy palace folk and come to us, and we 'll learn thee to believe that the poor he hath virtue also,” cried Calote, and was 'ware of her own voice, for the gospeller stood to be censed.