He kissed her hand before them all, and the mob shouted.
“Long live King Richard and the Queen of the Commons.”
When they would give him silence he shouted, “Sirs, follow me.”
And they followed him like sheep into the open fields about Islington.
Isoult’s eyes were on Fulk as they rode, but now and again she glanced back at the crowding faces of the mob.
“What will you do with them?”
“Bide my time. Men are coming who will not fail us.”
He did not trust in vain. Fulk had drawn rein, and the mob had spread out over a stretch of grass land, trampling the uncut hay under their feet when a cloud of dust arose between them and the city. Spear points and pennons caught the sunlight, and across the fields Robert Knollys came riding at the head of a thousand men. They bulked bigger than their number, thundering in close order, trumpets screaming, spears bristling, with a clash and jingle of steel. Behind them came Walworth the Mayor, at the head of certain city bands, bows strung, and brown bills flashing.
“Come.”
Fulk seized the bridle of Isoult’s horse, clapped in the spurs, and rode to meet Knollys’ great company. They opened and let him through. He drew rein before the forest of spears, and halted them with upraised arm.