‘The wine and the warmth cast the old man into a dream. His white head bowed; his hands hung. His eye indeed was opened, but the mind was shut. When he stretched his feet, they were scurfed and road-cut like a slave’s.
‘“Ah, Rahere,” cried Hugh, “why hast thou shown him thus? Better have let him die than shame him—and me!”
‘“Shame thee?” said the King. “Would any baron of mine kneel to me if I were witless, discrowned, and alone, and Harold had my throne?”
‘“No,” said Rahere. “I am the sole fool that might do it, Brother, unless"—he pointed at De Aquila, whom he had only met that day—"yonder tough Norman crab kept me company. But, Sir Hugh, I did not mean to shame him. He hath been somewhat punished through, maybe, little fault of his own.”
‘“Yet he lied to my Father, the Conqueror,” said the King, and the old man flinched in his sleep.
‘“Maybe,” said Rahere, “but thy Brother Robert, whose throat we purpose soon to slit with our own hands——”
‘“Hutt!” said the King, laughing. “I’ll keep Robert at my table for a life’s guest when I catch him. Robert means no harm. It is all his cursed barons.”
‘“None the less,” said Rahere, “Robert may say that thou hast not always spoken the stark truth to him about England. I should not hang too many men on that bough, Brother.”
‘“And it is certain,” said Hugh, “that"—he pointed to the old man—"Harold was forced to make his promise to the Great Duke.”
‘“Very strongly forced,” said De Aquila. He had never any pride in the Duke William’s dealings with Harold before Hastings. Yet, as he said, one cannot build a house all of straight sticks.