Cavendish’s grim face darkened.
“Not I. To the bottomless pit with you, son of a whelp.”
“To the point of a pike with your head, bully Cavendish. I’ll see to it. What have you there—the King’s sword?”
“The King’s sword.”
The Tiler leant forward in the saddle, and his eyes were dangerous.
“By Jesus! the King’s sword! This fellow here on the white horse has no right to it. Give me the King’s sword.”
“I’ll see thee in hell first.”
Wat clapped his hand on his own sword.
“Am I a fool, ye noble knaves? What, this is no King, but a Prince’s bastard. I know thee, Fulk Ferrers.”
He glared in Fulk’s eyes, not noticing Walworth, who was spurring his horse forward.