“I drink,” he cried, loud and clear, “to the best man in England. I drink to Colonel Cromwell.”
He drained the glass and sent it crashing into the fireplace. Then he folded his arms and faced his antagonists.
Brilliana’s heart seemed for a second to stand still. So beauty had not triumphed, after all. Dimly, as one in a dream, she could hear the fury of the Cavaliers find words.
“You black Jack, I will clip your ears,” Rufus promised.
“Blood him. Blood him,” bawled Fawley.
“Slit his nose,” Radlett suggested.
“Duck him in the horse-pond,” suggested Bardon.
“Set him in the stocks,” Ingrow advised.
Halfman, seeing how Brilliana leaned against the table, her face pale as her smock, raged at her daring denier. He stretched out his sword as if to marshal and restrain the passions of the Cavaliers.
“Would it not be properer sport, sirs,” he asked, “to tie him in a chair, like Guido Fawkes on November day, and take him through the village that loyal lads may pelt a traitor?”