And Richard coloured and bit his lip, saying, “True,—I had forgot Westminster is not good friends with us. 'T was all mine uncle's doing,‘ he continued angrily. ’Lord knows, I 've fallen asleep or ever I 've done my prayers, each night since the poor wretch was slain. I 've prayed him out of Purgatory ten times over, and paid for Masses. Dost thou not mind thee, Etienne, how I wept that day the murder was done, and would have stripped me body-naked to be whipped for 't in penance; but my confessor said was no need? Natheless, John Wyclif is a wily cleric. Dost mark how he ever passeth over the murder, soft, yet standeth on our right to make arrest in the church? For mine own part I do believe he is in the right; for wherefore is a king a king, if he may not do as him list, but is bound by time and place?”
“Yea, sire!” said Etienne absently; he was looking across, through the open door into the church. In the dim distance there he saw a little kneeling figure, and a gleam of golden braided hair. Almost he thought it was Calote, and his heart leaped; but he remembered that this could not be if Calote were in London. There were other golden-haired maids in England.
“Yet do I not like his doctrine,” the King mused. “For why?—the half on 't I cannot understand. Yesterday I fell asleep, upright, a-listening to the sound of his Latin. My confessor saith this Wyclif turneth the Bible into the English tongue for common folk to read,—and that 's scandal and heresy, to let down God's thoughts into speech of every day. But Master Wyclif's own thoughts be not God's, if all is true the Church teacheth, and I 'd liever listen to him in English.—or better, in French. Etienne, I go a-hunting, I 'm aweary of Latin, and Sanctuary, and all this cry of the Commons concerning expense. How is 't my fault if mine uncles and Sudbury and the council be spendthrifts? By Saint Thomas of Kent, I 'll stop this French war when I 'm a man. Yea, and I 'll stop the mouth of Parliament that talks me asleep.”
The workmen glanced at one another and grinned. Etienne made a step to the church door; the maid within had risen up off her knees and now crossed herself and went away down the nave.
“Sire!” cried Etienne sharply; “methought I saw—Calote.”
One of the workmen looked up at the name, and let his work lie.
“Calote?” said Richard. “Cœur de joie, but she 's in London.”
Etienne shook his head and peered into the dimness of the church, but the maid was gone.
“Ay, me,” sighed Richard wistfully, “I would thou didst love thy King but the half as well as thou lovest this peasant maid.”
“Beau sire,” said Etienne, kneeling, “I am thy loyal servant. Trust me, my heart plays no tricks.”