“Madame, if I have served, I have served. Let no man speak of it hereafter, for I shall not.”
She had gazed at him questioningly.
“Can a man, and a young man, step down and forget so generously?”
“I shall keep faith,” and he had smiled; “but I may crave to rule a company of ‘spears’ instead of a herd of deer.”
The Princess had given him the words of a great lady; but in the King’s chamber the real King sat sullenly in his chair, frowning and biting his thumbnail. With him were my Lords Salisbury and Warwick, and Sir Robert Knollys—men who looked at the lad with stark scorn, because of the paltry temper he was showing now that the peril was past. Shame had bitten deep into him and left a poison in the wound. His heart was too meagre to be magnanimous—a little, peevish, cunning heart that could not humble itself and so be healed.
He started up suddenly, petulant, and full of spite.
“I’ll not see this fellow, this bastard. Let him keep out of my sight.”
Salisbury towered near him like an oak.
“Sir, this bastard, as you call him, has your sire’s blood in him. And he has saved your kingdom.”
The lad was in a wild-cat mood, which served him for a sort of mannerless courage.