“Why, how now, my Lord?” said the King. “Methought it was our young Paladin whom we knighted at Devlen that was to be presented, and here thou bringest this old man. A blind man, ha! What is the meaning of this?”
“Majesty,” said the Earl, “I have taken this chance to bring to thy merciful consideration one who hath most wofully and unjustly suffered from thine anger. Yonder stands the young knight of whom we spake; this is his father, Gilbert Reginald, whilom Lord Falworth, who craves mercy and justice at thy hands.”
“Falworth,” said the King, placing his hand to his head. “The name is not strange to mine ears, but I cannot place it. My head hath troubled me sorely to-day, and I cannot remember.”
At this point the Earl of Alban came quietly and deliberately forward. “Sire,” said he, “pardon my boldness in so venturing to address you, but haply I may bring the name more clearly to your mind. He is, as my Lord of Mackworth said, the whilom Baron Falworth, the outlawed, attainted traitor; so declared for the harboring of Sir John Dale, who was one of those who sought your Majesty's life at Windsor eleven years ago. Sire, he is mine enemy as well, and is brought hither by my proclaimed enemies. Should aught occur to my harm, I rest my case in your gracious hands.”
The dusty red flamed into the King's pale, sickly face in answer, and he rose hastily from his seat.
“Aye,” said he, “I remember me now—I remember me the man and the name! Who hath dared bring him here before us?” All the dull heaviness of sickness was gone for the moment, and King Henry was the King Henry of ten years ago as he rolled his eyes balefully from one to another of the courtiers who stood silently around.
The Earl of Mackworth shot a covert glance at the Bishop of Winchester, who came forward in answer.
“Your Majesty,” said he, “here am I, your brother, who beseech you as your brother not to judge over-hastily in this matter. It is true that this man has been adjudged a traitor, but he has been so adjudged without a hearing. I beseech thee to listen patiently to whatsoever he may have to say.”
The King fixed the Bishop with a look of the bitterest, deepest anger, holding his nether lip tightly under his teeth—a trick he had when strongly moved with anger—and the Bishop's eyes fell under the look. Meantime the Earl of Alban stood calm and silent. No doubt he saw that the King's anger was likely to befriend him more than any words that he himself could say, and he perilled his case with no more speech which could only prove superfluous.
At last the King turned a face red and swollen with anger to the blind Lord, who still kneeled before him.