He found Salisbury riding at his side and staring at him with curious eyes.
“Sir, you look grim.”
Fulk twisted out a smile.
“Good sir, that may be true. I would ask for nothing better than to trample on these gentry as one tramples on corn.”
“S’death, go gently. Speak them fair. Make promises. We must humour the beast till we have the twitch on his nose.”
“The King makes for the King to break. My lord, I take you.”
So “The King behind the King” rode on.
Isoult was still standing in the wagon, staring like a blind woman at the White Tower. The brown figures beside her had swarmed down to follow the King’s banners, and the crowd had melted like mist, some hundreds of the rougher sort charging down to the gate that had been seized by Wat the Tiler and Jack Straw.
A man climbed into the wagon and touched her shoulder, and, turning sharply, she looked into the eyes of Guy the Stallion.
“Come, girl, all the fun of the fair! Am I to miss it because I am your gallant?”