“I carry the King’s orders. A word to them—that their heads have been asked for! We will wait our chance on the way, and smuggle them into the city to hide.”
“Good, very good.”
One of the porters who had been peering through the grille came to them with a white face.
“Sirs, the crowd is great without.”
“Tsst! they have marched to Mile End.”
“Sirs, not the Kentish men.”
Fulk waved him aside.
“Well, am I afraid of my own people! Open the gates. Let the trumpets blow. Now, sirs, for St. George and Richard of England!”
The gate swung back and the young King on the white horse rode out into the sea of heads and faces. For the moment a great silence held—the silence of a mistrustful crowd whose goodwill hangs upon the flash of an eye or the set of a head; but this lad with the crown rode out proudly. His eyes were steady and fearless, and he smiled at the crowd.
“Good sirs, well met.”