Heron was brave in his way; a true Cornishman, he could wrestle and cast his antagonist with the strength of a lion; he loved better, it is true, to trust to his arm than to his sword, which, in spite of his strength, Trereife always made fly from his hand in their fencing lessons; not the less did he consider himself a gallant knight, and had cut up many a yard of crimson cramoisy to make a rich suit for himself. He wore Monina's glove in his cap and large yellow roses at his knees; he called himself generalissimo, and marshalled under him full three thousand men, who in truth had
Never set a squadron in the field
Nor the division of a battle knew
More than a spinster;
but they were sturdy discontented spirits, who valued life at its worth, which was even nothing to them, who had laboured with all their hearts, till labour was of no avail, and who then left the mine and the furrow to carry their loud complaints to the foot of Henry's throne—they were better pleased with the prospect of overthrowing it.
"Now, my masters, make yourselves heard," cried Heron, as he shuffled down a little eminence on a short-legged Welsh pony, the only steed he found he could back in safety. "His grace is within ear-shot, so you be loud. Long life to King Richard!—down with the taxes—Saint Michael and Cornwall for ever!"
The din was prolonged, ended, began, went on, as the prince arrived at the summit of the hill with his little train—fair Katherine was at his side—Plantagenet, O'Water, De Faro, with some dozen soldiers who fled from Waterford; sure never invader came so ill equipped. On the hill-top the illustrious wanderers paused, Richard hastily scanned the rough-suited multitude—then, turning to Plantagenet, "Cousin," he said, "you told me that the insurgent army would be drawn out for my view; is it not strange that yonder rabble should hide it from us? As far as my eye can reach, I see no martial discipline, no banners, no lordly crest; fie on those drums! they have no touch of military concord. What makes our army so slack of duty, cousin?"
Though no fault of his, Edmund blushed deeply in very shame—the approach of Heron, Skelton, Trereife, and three or four other principal rebels, cut off his reply. It had been agreed that Skelton, who had a gift of eloquence, should speak, and many words he used to welcome his liege. "We will have every man with a red rose in his cap, in a drag chain, please your grace, and give a sound lesson to the saucy burghers of Exeter withal. Not a knight shall live in the land, but of your majesty's dubbing. We have but to put to rout King Henry's army, to hang the false loon for a traitor, and to set fire to London and the Parliament. Such nobles as please to doff their silken cloaks, and don miners' jackets, may work, the rest shall hang. Their mere wardrobes, bless the day! will find us and your grace in cloth of gold, embroidery, and other rich garniture to the end of our lives."
"We thank your zeal, my worthy master," said Richard, courteously; "if our good troops do half your saying, King Henry must look to it."
"Are those men to be worse than their word?" cried Skelton. "There is not one among us but has the arms of ten. We are of a race of giants, please your majesty, and could knock the walls of Exeter down with, our fists. Please you to enter Bodmin, whose very stones will cry for King Richard louder than King Hal's cannon;—to-morrow, God willing, we are for the wars."
The royal party passed on—the dark ferocity or sturdy obstinacy painted on the faces of the ill-armed rout, struck Richard as he passed—he became meditative, while Edmund, shamed and angry, his cheeks burning, his eyes on the ground, listened in indignant silence to Master Skelton, who fastened on him with such talk, that whether a soldier spoke of killing doublets, or a tailor prattled of fashioning a field of slaughter, was a riddle ill to be devised. At length they passed the gates of Bodmin; and here was a louder cry of welcome from the shrill voices of women, who held up their thin hands and half-starved children, crying for vengeance on Tudor, blessing the sweet faces of Richard and his lovely wife. York's eyes flashed again with their wonted fires; his creative spirit had found materials here to work some project, all poor and rude as they might seem.
They entered the town-hall; when, by some sudden revulsion, in the tide of the crowd, every Cornishman fell back, closed the doors, and left the wanderers alone. Something was forgotten surely; for Heron had paced pompously up to Richard, when suddenly he turned on his heel, crying, "A word, my masters!" and all were gone. The Lady Katherine had marked their backing and hurrying with becoming gravity; but, when the door was fairly shut, she could restrain no longer a heartfelt laugh. Richard joined in her mirth, while Plantagenet strode through the hall angrily; muttering, "an army, a rout of shirtless beggars; is this England's reception for her king?"