“Sire, will you come with us to Madame, your mother?”
He stood up, fingers twitching, staring at them stupidly.
“Put a cloak about him.”
Knollys took a red cloak from a stool, threw it over the King’s shoulders, and wrapped it round him.
“You must cover your face, Sire. Friend Walworth, will you go before us, to see the way is clear?”
The lad stood pulling his lower lip with thumb and forefinger, his eyes looking vacantly at Salisbury’s shoes. A hood was found, and put on back to front so that it served as a mask. He said nothing, but let them do with him what they pleased. Simon of Sudbury took him by the hand. Cold and moist, it clasped his with a spasmodic twitching of the fingers.
Salisbury glanced meaningly at Knollys.
“You shall see us anon, sir. Cavendish knows all that can be known.”
When the King had gone to his mother’s chamber to lie hidden in her bed, Knollys took a candle from a sconce, traversed a gallery, and made his way up a newel stair. The door at the top was barred on the inside. He knocked thrice, and the door was opened.
Knollys wasted no words.