Isoult went through the day, mute, wide-eyed, possessed by a sense of her utter helplessness. She was conscious of anger and scorn, and of a deepening disgust that hardened her face and pinched her nostrils. The dust, the sweat, the butchery, the odour of burnt wood, the flat smell of spent ale, the screams, the shouts, curses, and laughter, the blundering violence, the stupid, ruthless faces. She had a feeling that nothing could stop the mad rush of this multitude, that nothing could master it. The lords and great ones, the castles and richer houses, the whole proud scheme of things would go down before it and be left buried under mud and wreckage.
Merlin was watching her, and her loathing was too great to be dissembled.
“Lord of Foul Beasts, are you proud of the day?”
“No fire without smoke, Isoult. These fellows are as quiet as lambs in their own fields, but the wrath of God is in them.”
“The wrath of God may prove stronger than your wisdom.”
“Let them but shout and drink, and let a little blood, and they will be the more easily ruled when they are weary.”
“This blood lust is useful to you!”
“It shall purge the pride of the oppressor.”
“Assuredly it is a marvellous thing that we should be Christians.”
Towards evening the mob gathered in the square of St. Catharine’s by the Tower, and fixed their quarters there for the night. Here was the very heart of the kingdom, the castle of all castles, and the sight of its walls and towers roused these peasants to the very top of their frenzy. They crowded close to the walls, hooting and howling, and singing songs, boasting of the day’s happenings, and promising themselves nobler things on the morrow. In yonder were great lords whom they hated, and Simon of Sudbury, the archbishop, whom many of them had sworn to kill. The King should come out to them and grant all that they desired, or they would break in and take him out of the hands of men who were their enemies.