“Good, you are in our hands, and we in yours. Now, let us get ready for to-morrow’s hazard. None of us will get much sleep to-night.”
Cavendish went to stand on guard outside the door, while Fulk sat in the King’s chair with five pedagogues to put him through his part. It was a long lesson that they gave him, and a merciless catechising followed the lesson, lest some small thing might betray them.
Salisbury spoke last.
“Hold aloof, proudly. We will stand about you, and keep meddlers at a distance. Remember, a King may please himself, but when you meet with these peasants, ride high in the saddle, and yet with a kind of valiant frankness. A mob should be treated as you would treat a strange dog. Never flinch, and yet be not too familiar.”
They watched Fulk’s face as though trying to forecast the issue of the morrow. He sat erect in the chair, mouth firm, eyes steady.
“Sirs,” he said very quietly; “if I am my father’s son I have the blood of mastery in me. It will be served.”
CHAPTER XIX
Friday’s dawn came in stealthily, with a mist that foretold heat, masking the windings of the river. The King’s standard on the White Tower hung in folds against the pole, and haze covered the city, a silver fog through which the towers and steeples struck, sending their wind vanes and fleches to glitter in the sunlight.
Knollys and Walworth the Mayor were on the platform of the White Tower soon after dawn, peering down like hawks into the dark spaces outside the walls. What would the mob’s temper be? What manner of sunset would follow this stealthy dawn? There was much movement down yonder. All through the night a restless murmur had risen from the streets and alleys. Seen through the haze, the square of St. Catharine looked like a stagnant pool swarming with tadpoles.
Soon after dawn hundreds of peasants came crowding to the gates and walls. They crowed like cocks, and the conceit seemed to please them.