“If the fools knew! We have been gathering what power we can. Knollys has several hundred men hidden round about his quarters. Perducas d’Albreth has his free companions. Walworth promises to do what he can with the city bands.”
“And the day’s business? By my sword, Cavendish, I am ready to stretch my wings.”
“We play the game boldly, sir. Clerks have been scribbling charters all night, and it is our wisdom to put a bold face on it. We ride to Westminster to hear Mass.”
Fulk’s eyes shone.
“What of Knollys? Is he here?”
“Knollys bides with his men, ready to make a sally, should it come to blows.”
“He sent me no message?”
“Not a word.”
That Saturday morning Fulk rode to Westminster at the head of no more than sixty souls. No one came out to see them; no one shouted “God save the King!” The highway was empty, the houses shuttered and dumb; but within the walls the city hummed like a hive, for Wat and Merlin had heard that the King had ridden out.
Fulk heard Mass, but his thoughts were all of Isoult. The candles on the high altar were a yellow blur; the sacring bell made a mere tinkling sound a long way off. He knelt, but the sacred bread found no prayer between his lips; the “Deo gratias” was all he listened for, because of the restless love in him, and the lust for action.