“No, of course not,” said Wynkin, in consoling tones. “It isn’t possible, for the King can do no wrong, I’ve always heard say. Every idiot knows that, and it isn’t likely his son can, particularly his eldest son, the Prince of Wales, like you are.”
“I never thought of that,” said Charles, with a meditative air, as he lifted all the whipped cream with his spoon from his tart and swallowed it at a gulp. “I may do whatever I please and it won’t be wrong. But there, that’s just it—I can’t do what I please. How can I? I want to run and jump and bathe out in that splendid pool there, and climb up those great tall fellows of trees and—and—do all the things other boys do—for I’m not a baby now—I’m turned nine—and it’s a shame, keeping me cooped up in this mousetrap of a room. Oh, you know it is, Wynkin, and you might say so, if you had a kind heart, but you haven’t—you are hard-hearted and cruel, like the lords.”
“But they have to be cruel to be kind,” contended Wynkin. “The King’s Majesty, God preserve him, has so many enemies—so many who hate him.”
“Yes, I know, so ’tis said,” replied the boy, “and ’tis all very well, Wynkin, but I can’t believe it. My father is so gentle and kind. If ’tis true, ’tis because they don’t know him.”
“That may be so, your Highness. And ’tis just the business of many of those who call themselves his Majesty’s friends to hinder him from being known as—as you know him. And you see, there are bad men about of all sorts and sizes and parties, who want to get you away from him.”
“I’d be torn in pieces first,” said the child, his dark face flushing.
“Yes,” said Wynkin, “that’s about what it would be. I’m not certain but I think now there’s a price set upon your head.”
“What’s the good of it to anybody?” laughed Charles.
“Oh, well, there mayn’t, of course, be anything in it?”