It was a noble room hung with sky-blue arras dusted with silver stars, and over by the window stood a great bed covered with a canopy of purple cloth. Hutches and chests had been broken open, and rich clothes and stuffs of cloth of silver and gold had been scattered about the floor. In the bed sat the Princess, the King’s mother, white as her own night gear. Three women cowered in a corner. A dozen or more peasants were crowded round, snapping their fingers in the Princess’s face, jeering, and threatening to pull the clothes from her, and thrusting the points of their pikes into the bed.
“Men of Kent, have you forgotten Edward the Black Prince?”
She faced them fearlessly, in spite of deathly fear, and the white pride of her face was like a white flame, keeping the men back. They were awed and, a little ashamed, faltered, grinned at each other, and then slunk back towards the door.
Isoult hid herself in a dark recess in the thickness of the wall, and they went crowding down the stairs past her.
“I’ve seen the King’s mother a’bed, Jock!”
“That be some’at to remember!”
Isoult was still in hiding when one of the Princess’s women came to the door and ran down the flight of steps. She looked this way and that like a frightened deer, and then, putting her hands to her mouth, called up the great stairway.
“Eustace! Geoffrey!”
She stood listening, her face strained and expectant. Down the stairway came two men, descending step by step, the one in front craning his head forward to see that the way was clear.
“Quick, for the love of Our Lady. The wretches have been here!”