“Knollys, I’ll do it. Troth—for another day, though my heart is out yonder.”
“Trust me, lad. I’ll send out beaters and prickers. The rose shall not be worn on a churl’s coat.”
Yet Fulk slept but little that night, for the thought of Isoult was like fire in him—Isoult, who had come from death to life, with her red lips and her coal-black hair. He thought of Merlin and the Stallion and those beasts of the field, and the hot youth in him grew mad and furious. Was this rich rose to be torn and crushed by such hands?
Dawn came, and Fulk, restless, hot-eyed, and impatient, stood at the window and looked out towards the sunrise. Roofs, towers, and pinnacles were black against the yellow east, and although it was but daybreak the dark web of the city seemed to tremble with hidden life. From somewhere came a murmur of voices. In more than one black tower bells were ringing.
The door of the King’s chamber opened, and Cavendish stood there with the look of a man out to meet foul weather.
“What news, Cavendish?”
“Sleet and wind, sir. The day may be rougher than yesterday. My Lords Salisbury and Warwick, and Walworth the Mayor have never seen their beds.”
“And our good friends—the Commons?”
“There is the peril, sir. Those screech owls, John Ball and Jack Straw, have been flying through the city. Many of those who marched off yesterday have marched back again. Our spies have been out since sunset. Wat spoke at Paul’s Cross at midnight—bloody words, I promise you. They say the King’s charters are not to be trusted.”
He laughed grimly, ironically.