“S’death, they have caught Master Simon! I know that fat face of his.”
Wat the Tiler broke away from the crowd, and his beard was all froth and spittle from shouting.
“Friend Guy, there are swine to be stuck in yonder. Rout them out—the Prior of St. John, and some of Lancaster’s rats.”
He stared hard into Isoult’s eyes.
“Go and show the Red Queen a fine colour. Simon of Sudbury’s head is going to dance on a pike.”
When the mob had passed Guy seized her wrist and drew her on, and she went with him, mutely, as though the old Isoult were dead in her, the Isoult who could rule men with a flash of the eyes. She thought of Fulk on his white horse riding out proudly to face these boors, and she prayed fiercely that he might fool them. She was weary of this mob adventure; and, loathing these hinds with a great loathing, she believed once more in the pride of the sword, scorning the baser clay that stank of the potter’s hands.
They reached the great court about the White Tower, and here Bedlam—a bloody Bedlam—had been let loose. The mob swarmed everywhere. They had driven a dozen of the King’s knights into a corner and were pulling their beards and spitting in their faces. Two hacked bodies lay close to the chapel entry, the bodies of two of John of Gaunt’s men who had been caught in his hated colours. From the windows of the White Tower came yells and curses. A man leant out, waving a red hand.
“Taken—taken—bully Robert Hales!”
The mob roared.
“Bring him out! Throw him down!”