“A jest, a noble jest! The King, the King!”
His voice carried.
“Sirs, the King—our King! Hear him!”
Fulk turned in the saddle, and spoke to Cavendish, who had followed him.
“Cavendish, as you love honour, look to that woman yonder. Guard her for me with your life. Bring Wat’s horse to me. Speed!”
He spurred his horse, and rode forward to the very edge of the crowd, looking on these men of the fields with masterful eyes and holding up a hand for silence.
“Sirs, sirs, I am your King. We have slain a traitor—a traitor who dared to lay a hand upon his sword. Follow me. I—King Richard—will be your captain.”
Some cheered, others looked at him sullenly. He rode his white horse to and fro in front of them, and then drew rein beside Isoult.
“A horse—a horse!”
Cavendish came leading dead Wat’s black horse. Fulk looked at Isoult, and she at him, and in that glance all their valour and passion met and mingled.