“My friend, would you win the King’s thanks? I have words that are for the King’s ear, and for his alone. I know what I know. See—I kiss the Cross; now let your lips touch it.”
The porter obeyed him.
“My son, I will make thee serve God, St. Francis, and the King. I will put fifty gold pieces into thy pocket, for the King will give thee whatsoever I shall ask. Take me to the King’s chamber. Let no one meddle. Thou canst search me if thou thinkest me a fool with a knife.”
The porter led him into his lodge, and searched him from top to toe.
“Now, speed thee; let no lords and busybodies meddle; my words are for the King alone.”
This fat fellow did not guess that Merlin’s skin was like the skin of a goose, all cold prickles, and yet ready to sweat. So much hung on the chances of the moment. The King’s chamber was Heaven, the courtyard and passages and stairs that led to it part of a hazardous Valley of Death. One shrewd glance from some loitering gentleman, and Merlin’s head might join the heads of John Ball and Jack Straw.
Luck was with him. A sleepy squire, not the grim Cavendish, was yawning on a bench outside the door of the King’s chamber. Words passed between the porter and the squire, and the porter was thinking of possible favours, for what harm could there be in chancing that this friar would do what he said?
The squire consented to waken the King. Merlin won through. The squire returned, yawning behind his hand.
“Come, Grey Brother, the King will speak with you.”
The shutters had been thrown open, and through the traceried windows a patterning of sunlight poured down upon the oak floor. Richard was abed, blinking and stretching his arms. He rolled over and looked at Merlin with sleepy eyes.