His courage captured them. The cock of his head, the braced-back shoulders, the blue metal of his eyes, these things counted. These rough fellows from the fields shouted tumultuously and crowded about him.
“King Richard for Merrie England!”
Fulk stood in his stirrups.
“Sirs, I am Richard your King. To Mile End! Follow my banners.”
The crowd made way for him, and he passed with his company of lords and gentlemen, who rode close together and scarcely looked at the crowd. The banners swept under the arch of the gate, and the men of Kent were on the move—all save a few who seemed to stare and loiter as though a King and such a company were not to be seen more than once in a lifetime. The porters were closing the gate when these loiterers gathered suddenly, rushed in a body through the barriers, hurled back the half-closed gate, and struck down the guards and porters. They stood there shouting and tossing their weapons.
The tail of the King’s company was not fifty paces away, and some of the riders faltered; white faces looked back over half-turned shoulders.
“S’death—they have taken the gate behind us!”
Salisbury spoke through clenched teeth.
“Ride on, ride on, sir. Look not back.”
Fulk had not faltered. He looked at the Kentish men who crowded round him, and smiled.