Fulk spoke but two words.
“Kill, kill!”
The chest of Walworth’s horse struck Wat’s on the flank. A sword flashed, and smote the Tiler across the face. He reeled, toppled out of the saddle, and lay sprawling before the hoofs of Fulk’s white horse.
“Kill!”
Cavendish was out of the saddle and on him like a hound on a fox. Wat tried to rise, but Cavendish’s dagger went home, once in the throat and twice in the chest. Wat’s body twisted, relaxed, lay still.
A great silence held, like the hush in a forest between two gusts of a gathering storm. The mob was mute, staring at the dead body and the King on the white horse.
Then a great bellow of rage went up.
“They have slain our captain! Kill—kill!”
CHAPTER XXV
A flare of light leapt into Fulk’s eyes. His figure seemed to dilate, to tower higher on his white horse. He was lifted up, the god of a great moment.