He stood up with a humility that hid much turmoil, doubt, and wonder, yet his eyes were fiercely alive under his grey hood—eyes that snatched at every visible detail, and yet pretended to see nothing.
Fulk considered him as a lord considers a beggar.
“You friars are notorious busybodies. Our own priests say you take away their own alms-dish from under their very noses.”
Merlin drew a step nearer.
“Lording, we are much abused.”
“And it is pleasant to confess to a man whose face one may not see again.”
“Lording, you have a sharp tongue. Yet I will take a groat from any gentleman for the glorifying of our great house in London. And from Messire Fulk Ferrers——”
“Well, I am he.”
Merlin stood yet closer. His dark eyes seemed to search every line of Fulk’s face with a fascinated and greedy eagerness which could not be hid. Fulk took it to be a notorious hunger for money, for no beggars could beg like the preaching friars.
“Maybe you have been in London, Messire Fulk, and have seen the great and noble church of St. Francis, near to Newgate. Kings and great lords and ladies have given us money, and jewels, and plate, and rich stuffs, not for our glory but for the glory of St. Francis and the good of their souls. Doubtless, when you have tarried at my Lord of Lancaster’s Palace of the Savoy——”