“I like you, Peter Brome, though doubtless you hate me.”
“Not so, Sire. While Richard lived I fought for Richard. Richard is gone; and, if need be, I would fight for Henry, who am an Englishman, and serve England’s king.”
“Well said, and I may have need of you yet, nor do I bear you any grudge. But, I forgot, is it thus that you would fight for me, by causing riot in my streets, and bringing me into trouble with my good friends the Spaniards?”
“Sire, you know the story.”
“I know your story, but who bears witness to it? Do you, maiden, Castell the merchant’s daughter?”
“Aye, Sire. The man whom my cousin killed maltreated me, whose only wrong was that I waited to see your Grace pass by. Look on my torn cloak.”
“Little wonder that he killed him for the sake of those eyes of yours, maiden. But this witness may be tainted.” And again he smiled, adding, “Is there no other?”
Betty advanced to speak, but d’Aguilar, stepping forward, lifted his bonnet from his head, bowed and said in English:
“Your Grace, there is; I saw it all. This gallant gentleman had no blame. It was the servants of my countryman de Ayala who were to blame, at any rate at first, and afterwards came the trouble.”
Now the ambassador de Ayala broke in, claiming satisfaction for the killing of his man, for he was still very angry, and saying that if it were not given, he would report the matter to their Majesties of Spain, and let them know how their servants were treated in London.