He was in truth standing somewhat exhausted in the road under one of the black-timbered houses in Ludgate Hill, when a small cavalcade of knights and squires, some in armour, some in the scarlet cloaks of the Hospitallers, came sharply round the corner, so sharply, indeed, that in the narrow road one of the squires’ horses struck Stephen and sent him staggering against the wall.
The party reined up at once. Hugh had uttered a cry and sprung to his father’s side, dropping the monkey as he stretched out his arms. Half a dozen men-at-arms crowded round; one of the red-cloaked knights leaped from his horse, but they all drew back before one who seemed the principal knight, a man of great stature, with brown hair and thick beard, and gravely searching blue eyes.
“Is he hurt?” he demanded. “That is your squire’s rough riding, Sir John de Lacy.”
“My liege, ’twas but a touch,” urged an older knight. “I saw it all. He can scarce be hurt.” Stephen, indeed, had well-nigh recovered himself, though dizzy with the shock, and scarcely knowing what had happened or why he was surrounded by horsemen. Hugh, seeing him revived, stared at the group with all his might, while the monkey, frightened to death at the horses, had run up a projection of the house and perched himself upon a carved wooden balcony, from which he scolded and chattered.
“It is nothing, I am not hurt,” faltered Stephen; and then the colour rushed back to his white face, and he bent his knee hastily. “My Lord the King,” he stammered, “is it not?”
“Ay,” said Edward, with one of his rare kindly smiles; “but it was not I who rode over thee. Art thou not hurt?”
“Nay, my liege, it is but that I have been ill. It was no more than a touch.”
It had all passed quickly, but a knot of bystanders had by this time collected, kept off by the men-at-arms.
“He speaks truly, my lord,” said one of the Hospitallers who had dismounted. “He has not been hurt by the horse, but—”
He paused significantly, and Edward glanced at Hugh. “Come hither, boy.”