“No more grinding at the lord’s mill.”
“No heriot, and no dues, and no fleecing of a poor man when his wench marries.”
For an hour or more Fulk sat there in their midst, listening to the babel of their desires, patiently, proudly, knowing behind his pride that for the moment the kingdom was at their mercy. The great brown mob palpitated about him. He was a rock in the midst of the sea, a solitary oak on a wind-blown heath.
His hand went up for a great silence, and it came—after much wrangling and shouting.
“Sirs, it seems to me good that men should be free. I, Richard the King, grant you your desires.”
They surged round him, shouting like madmen.
“King Richard! King Richard!”
“The King’s word carries!”
“We knew we would have justice if we had the ear of the King.”
“St. George for Merrie England!”