‘“De Aquila, dost thou mock him?” Rahere jingled from one to another, and the old man smiled.
‘“By the Bones of the Saints, not I,” said our Lord of Pevensey. “I know how dooms near he broke us at Santlache.”
‘“Sir Hugh, you are excused the question. But you, valiant, loyal, honourable, and devout barons, Lords of Man’s Justice in your own bounds, do you mock my fool?”
‘He shook his bauble in the very faces of those two barons whose names I have forgotten. “Na—Na!” they said, and waved him back foolishly enough.
‘He hies him across to staring, nodding Harold, and speaks from behind his chair.
‘“No man mocks thee. Who here judges this man? Henry of England—Nigel—De Aquila! On your souls, swift with the answer!” he cried.
‘None answered. We were all—the King not least—overborne by that terrible scarlet and black wizard-jester.
‘“Well for your souls,” he said, wiping his brow. Next, shrill like a woman: “Oh, come to me!” and Hugh ran forward to hold Harold, that had slidden down in the chair.
‘“Hearken," said Rahere, his arm round Harold’s neck. “The King—his bishops—the knights—all the world’s crazy chessboard neither mock nor judge thee. Take that comfort with thee, Harold of England!”
‘Hugh heaved the old man up and he smiled.