the window was full of the deep blue gloom of a summer night, with stars shining like the feathers of silver arrows shot into a target. a black curtain shut off the window recess from the king’s council chamber within, where candles burnt in sconces on the walls.
in this window recess in the south wall of the white tower two men stood talking in whispers—great lords both of them, the earls of salisbury and warwick. the shorter of the two had opened one of the lattices, and was kneeling with one knee on the padded seat. he rapped with his fingers on the stone sill, and watched the sentinels going to and fro upon the walls, and the river sliding smoothly under the stars. the night was very still—so still that they could hear the stream plashing along the walls by the water-gate. hardly a sound came from the city, and the very muteness of the night seemed ominous and strange.
a clashing of arms, sudden and sharp, in the courtyard below, and the tramp of feet, told of the changing of the guard. a voice shouted orders. from beyond the curtain came a queer, whimpering sound as of a girl hiding her head in her cloak and weeping.
the man who knelt on the cushions turned sharply, and his lips were drawn back over his teeth.
“psst—listen to that! such snivelling when the kingdom’s turned upside down!”
“not too loud!”
“what will happen when he hears the wolves howling under the walls! and walworth could promise——?”
“but little. eight thousand burghers skulking in their houses behind closed doors; and thirty thousand ready to shout for the gates to be opened.”
warwick turned fiercely and glanced up into salisbury’s face—a massive, stolid, cautious face, in no hurry to betray emotion.
“what’s to be done? are we to let this herd of swine root up the whole kingdom?”
“ring their snouts, my friend.”
“and who’s to do the ringing? that—that—in yonder!”
they turned by some common impulse and stared at the black curtain that hid them from the council chamber.
“the lad has no more heart in him than a hare!”
“he is what he is.”
“a snivelling girl! thunder of heaven, if we could but have the sire back in his stead! why, look you, if these rebels can but get him into their hands, they’ll have no more to do but to pull ugly faces. he will run and hide his face in his mother’s bosom, and let them hang every gentleman and friend in the kingdom.”
salisbury nodded his head.
“weak king—no kingdom. i am wondering how many of us will keep our heads on our shoulders.”
“hallo, who’s this?”
footsteps came towards them. the curtain was plucked aside, jerked back again, and a third man stood with them in the window recess. it was robert knollys, with the face of a ship’s captain, looking straight into the thick of a storm.
he laid a hand on salisbury’s shoulder, and spoke in a harsh whisper.
“look in yonder; it is enough to make the heart of a strong man sick.”
he drew the curtain slightly to one side, so that they could see into the great council chamber lit by the candles set in sconces upon the walls. half a dozen knights and gentlemen had withdrawn to the far end of the chamber and were standing there like men discomfited, knowing not whether to stay or to go. at the lower end of the council table sat simon of sudbury, clad in a plain violet-coloured cassock with a small gold cross at his breast. he had a richly-bound missal open on the table before him, and he made a pretence of turning the pages. now and again he raised his eyes from the book with binding of scarlet and gold, and looked at the princess, who sat in a great carved chair set upon a low daïs in the centre of the chamber.
for this woman’s face was a tragedy in itself, struggling to mask pity, shame, anger, and a kind of incredulous scorn. she was dressed in some golden stuff that caught the light of the candles, so that her figure seemed to draw the light to it from every corner of the great room. a cap of silver tissue covered her black hair, and her face had a fine and spirited comeliness that strove not to be humiliated by the thing that lay upon her knees.
for on her knees lay the head of a king—her son. her hands covered it, hands wearing many rings that sent out from their whiteness sparkles of red and of blue, of green and of purple. richard was kneeling before her, his hands clasping the arms of the chair—frail, delicate hands, tapering towards the nails. two thin ankles and feet shod in shoes of gilded leather were thrust out from under the folds of a robe of blue and white silk. his shoulders were twitching, and as they twitched the heels of his gilden shoes smote together.
knollys dropped the curtain and blotted out the room.
“god help the lad; he should have been born a girl.”
they stood close together, morose, grim, baffled.
“how can one put blood into the boy?”
“ask me some other riddle, my friend! he has been like that ever since newtown came to him to-day from the mob upon blackheath. newtown babbled too much—a pity they did not hang him.”
“and we have promised that he shall parley with them to-morrow.”
“yes; and he swears that he will not go.”
warwick struck the wall with his fist.
“go; he shall go! by god, are we going to be brought to perdition because the lad’s a coward! he has come to a man’s state. thunder of heaven! think of what the sire was at his age, and the grandsire before him. some tricksy devil must have got into the marriage bed.”
knollys stroked his chin, and his eyes fell into a hard stare.
“sirs, i have something to say to you.”
and to such purpose did he tell his tale that the murmur of their voices continued behind the curtain for more than an hour.
the next dawn was that of corpus christi day, and richard the king and his lords and gentlemen heard mass in the tower chapel. those who knew what to fear saw that the king’s face was like the face of a sickly girl, and that his thighs shook under him as he knelt on his crimson cushion. when mass was over he returned to his chamber with the princess, his mother, meaning to robe himself to meet these rebel peasants. they were to send their leaders to the southern bank near rotherhithe, and the king was to go in his barge and listen to their grievances.
what passed in richard’s chamber no one but his mother knew, for she served as confessor, squire, and page, and the door was closed on them for more than an hour. she gave him strong wine to drink, and used the lash of her scorn, so that there was some colour in his cheeks when he went down with his lords and gentlemen to the water-gate where the barge was waiting. trumpets blew, and the lad’s chin went up as though his manhood crowed an answer to the trumpets. salisbury, who walked at his side, watched him narrowly, knowing how much hung upon this youngster’s wit and courage.
the barge swung out into the river with a steady sweep of the long oars, and headed towards rotherhithe, with the king’s banner flying at the stern. salisbury, warwick, and suffolk, and certain knights and gentlemen were in the barge, and all wore armour under their robes. the rowers were men who could shoot straight if needs be, and bows were ready under the thwarts. towards london bridge many boats were lying, full of people in red and green hoods and many coloured doublets, so that they looked like great painted birds upon the water. these london boats stayed by the bridge, none of them putting out to follow the king, for knollys had rowed up with two sergeant-at-arms and had it proclaimed that no boat should venture past the tower.
in the king’s barge all men were silent, and avoided each other’s eyes as though fearing to see what each man felt to be too urgent in his own. richard sat stiff as a wooden figure in the stern, an earl on either side of him. he wore his crown and robes of state, and the royal sword lay sheathed upon his knees. warwick, who sat at his right elbow, kept pouring a whisper of words into his ear; but richard never opened his lips, nor did he seem to hear. his eyes threw out uncertain, flickering glances that wavered from side to side. he watched the blades of the oars churning up foam, and since his lips were dry, he kept moistening them with his tongue.
as they drew towards rotherhithe, a knight who was standing in the bow of the barge uttered a “grace of god,” and shaded his eyes with his hand.
“my lord, look yonder!”
salisbury stood up, to see what should have been a green meadow sloping to the river, turned brown by a great swarm of men. thousands of peasants were crowded along the southern bank, and they were silent with a strange, hungry silence, waiting for the coming of the king.
“by the virgin, they have sent ten thousand men instead of ten score.”
then, quite suddenly, as though from some crack in the earth, a huge, rolling shout went up from the southern bank. they had seen the king’s banner at the stern of the barge, and the whole brown multitude bayed, and jostled, and jumped on each other’s shoulders to get a view. the clamour had a ragged and ferocious edge to its exultation. it was like the uproar among caged beasts when the keeper appears with red meat on an iron spit.
the lad wearing the crown sat rigid, and went white to the eyes. the two earls looked at each other over his head, and drew closer to him as though to warm him with the heat of their manhood. he was cold in the sun, and his teeth were chattering.
“courage, sire.”
“they shout for the joy of seeing you.”
salisbury spoke sharply to the steersman, and the barge ran on, the crowd along the bank unfolding itself like a grotesque tapestry upon a wall. every sort of face seemed there—hairy, smooth, red, sallow, old, young, round, lean, some like screaming birds, others like neighing horses, all hooting, bellowing, and howling so that each open mouth was a red hole spouting sound. the uproar made the ears sing. some of the men had stripped off their clothes, and danced with a kind of obscene bravado. caps were waved, fists shaken at the nobles.
salisbury, who was standing up, very white and fierce and calm, signed to the rowers to rest on their oars and let the barge glide along about thirty yards from the bank. a storm of cries swept across the water.
“land—land.”
“come ashore!”
“death to the lords!”
“come ashore, king dick; we honest men would speak with you.”
“wow, wow, wow!”
“father adam’s come to court.”
“sit you down, big belly. up with the king.”
the two earls sat close to richard, half holding him with the pressure of their bodies.
“courage, sire.”
he shut his eyes and broke into a voiceless chatter.
“no nearer, sir, i charge you. i—i am your king. bid them row farther off.”
“they mean you no harm, sire.”
“by the soul of your father, open your eyes, and look at them as you would look at a herd of swine.”
“no nearer. row farther out, i say. i’ll not speak to these beasts.”
the barge turned, and then began to row to and fro at a fair distance from the bank. for a while the crowd grew quieter, as though it were puzzled, and waiting to see what those in the barge would do.
then the shouts broke out again.
“come to land.”
“curse you, lords! they are making a mock of us and of our king!”
“ho! hallo! hallo! give us our king; we have much to say to him.”
some of them who were naked began to wade into the water. salisbury glanced at the coward under the crown, spoke to the steersman, and held up a hand for silence.
the crowd suffered him to speak.
“sirs, you are not fitly clad, nor fitly mannered for the king to speak with you.”
he faced them, nostrils inflated, eyes bidding them back to the soil. the barge was edging away, and for a moment the crowd was silent. then of a sudden it understood.
the roar that went up was the roar of a multitude that is balked of its desire. fists shot out; men sprang into the river, felt for mud, and threw it, even as they threw curses. hoots, yells, whistlings followed the splashing oars.
the king’s barge returned to the tower, and the peasants to blackheath, to tell the thousands who had tarried there how the king and his lords had refused to treat with them, but had held aloof as though they were so many lepers. wat the tiler, merlin, and john ball had no wish to see the mob in a peaceful temper. if these lords and gentlemen were to be trampled out of existence, it behoved them to keep the great beast to its fury, and set it to rend and slay.
the whole host poured from blackheath, and by noon there were sixty thousand peasants in the suburbs, rushing hither and thither, breaking into religious houses, plundering the taverns, breaking down doors, and smashing fences, following any wild whim that served to lead them. they demolished the marshalsea and set the prisoners free. hundreds of uncouth figures came crowding to the closed gates, and howled threats at the guards upon the walls.
“open the gates! open the gates!”
the cry became one long, monotonous, unchanging howl.
walworth the mayor spoke with them at the bridge gate, standing on the curtain wall between the towers, and looking down upon a sea of upturned faces. the rebels shook their scythes and pikes at him and threatened him with their bows. some of them had brought up tree trunks and ladders, and shouted that they would break the gates down or storm the walls if the city did not open to them.
walworth parleyed with the crowd, and rode straight to the tower, where the council was sitting without the king. walworth’s news was desperate news, nor could he promise much for the goodwill of the city. the wealthier guilds might muster some eight thousand armed men, counting prentices and servants; sir robert knollys had his six score men-at-arms, quartered about his lodging; sir perducas d’albreth had some fifty more. there were in the tower with the king his two maternal brothers, the earls of salisbury, suffolk, and warwick, the grand prior of the templars, sir robert de namur, the lord of vertain, sir henry de sanselles, and a number of knights, squires, and yeomen. the kent and sussex rebels could count on the great mass of the common people within the city, and the easterlings and the midlanders were on the march. walworth shrugged his shoulders and spoke of opening the gates.
“i tell you, sirs, there is nothing for it but to keep these gentry in a good temper. the king alone can shepherd them. they will listen to no one else. yet if they are met bravely and with fair words——”
the lords looked at each other across the council table. it was as though walworth mocked them, bidding them send out a white pigeon to coo to all these ravens. there was some quarrelling before the council broke up, having come to no judgment in the matter; but salisbury and knollys drew walworth aside and spoke with him apart in a window. warwick and the archbishop joined them, and they debated for a long while in undertones.
it was salisbury who pressed the issue.
“walworth speaks the truth. we are in the last ditch, sirs, and something must be risked by desperate men. let knollys bring this marvel in.”
“but the princess? is she the lady to suffer her son——?”
“let us all go to her together. she is a woman of sense and spirit. come, gentlemen; we have no time to lose.”
this “woman of sense and spirit” heard them with so much patience that knollys rode to his lodgings as dusk fell, and climbed the stairs to fulk’s attic. the last edge of a red sunset showed through the window, and fulk was standing and leaning his arms on the sill. for days he had been cooped up in this upper room, seeing no one but knollys’ old squire and trusted comrade in arms, who brought him food and drink, and stared him in the face as though he were edward the black prince risen from the dead. for hours together fulk had stood at the window watching the smoke rising, the pigeons on the roofs, and the swifts circling high above the steeples whose vanes glittered in the sunlight. isoult’s beauty was still burning in him, making his restlessness a consuming fire.
he turned sharply as knollys entered, and his profile showed clear against the sunset. the very cock of his head was for adventure.
knollys closed the door. he had a green cloak and hood, and a grey scarf over his right arm.
“the king behind the king!”
he gave a short laugh and tossed the things upon the bed.
“it’s like the smell of the sea when the ships put off for france. on with the cloak, lad, and wrap the scarf over your face. it will be dark enough in the streets.”
two strides brought fulk into the middle of the attic.
“i was ready to knock my head against the wall. what news?”
“leave that for an hour. we must get through while the streets are open. the mob may break in before you can sing an ave.”
fulk put on the cloak, and covered his face with the scarf, so that nothing but his eyes showed.
“what lodging for to-night?”
“the tower, lad, the tower!”
