“Margaret, come here,” cried Peter; and the girl was thrust forward to him.
“Sire,” he said, “that man,” and he pointed to the corpse of Andrew, “tried to do wrong to this maiden, John Castell’s child. I, her cousin, threw him down. He drew his sword and came at me, and I killed him with my staff. See, it lies there. Then the Spaniards—his comrades—would have cut me down, and I called for English help. Sire, that is all.”
The king looked him up and down.
“A merchant by your dress,” he said; “but a soldier by your mien. How are you named?”
“Peter Brome, Sire.”
“Ah! There was a certain Sir Peter Brome who fell at Bosworth Field—not fighting for me,” and he smiled. “Did you know him perchance?”
“He was my father, Sire, and I saw him slain—aye, and slew the slayer.”
“Well can I believe it,” answered Henry, considering him. “But how comes it that Peter Brome’s son, who wears that battle scar across his face, is clad in merchant’s woollen?”
“Sire,” said Peter coolly, “my father sold his lands, lent his all to the Crown, and I have never rendered the account. Therefore I must live as I can.”
The king laughed outright as he replied: