“Yes, yes; and let the clerks put it all in writing.”
Fulk turned his horse and made a sign to Cavendish to approach.
“Let my banners advance. Room, sirs, room for my banners.”
Yet to one man in the crowd the game was going too smoothly, and that man was Father Merlin. This lad on the white horse seemed likely to carry the people away with him, and Merlin stood biting his nails and watching Fulk malevolently from under his hood. This young King on the white horse held the grey friar at a disadvantage. The one was lifted up valiantly before all men; the other lurked in the crowd, fearing to thrust to the front because of his grey frock.
“Fools, fools, to be cozened!”
A snarl of rage broke from him when the crowd honoured the King’s banners. Each county was to have its banner, and the men of each county were to march back with the King’s banner to their homes. Clerks were to be set that night to make out the charters, and two men from each county were to tarry behind their fellows to carry the charters into the countryside.
A voice trumpeted its scorn.
“Fools, you are being tricked, sent home like sheep!”
Fulk heard the cry. His face seemed to glow like white metal. He stood in his stirrups, high above the crowd.
“Who is it that challenges the word of the King? Let him stand out.”