they looked at each other, these two—fulk, like a man who stares into the heart of a fire; isoult, with eyes that showed at first no more than a tired wonder. she saw the red bridle tighten, the white horse draw in. then the truth leapt at her out of the eyes that had flashed with a startled swiftness to hers.
then she saw the red bridle jerked and fulk’s profile, stark and clear, as he pressed his heels into the white horse’s flanks. god, how nearly he had betrayed himself when his heart had leapt in him with a cry of “isoult, isoult!”
all the blood in his body seemed thundering into his brain. he had to steady himself, clench his teeth, fix his eyes on the tops of the houses, ride on without so much as another side glance.
she was not dead then, but living, with red lips and raven hair. how had it happened? was she a traitress after all, and had she but tricked merlin to save him out of pity? pity! he looked as though he had been struck with a whip, his face white as a frost, with tense lips and quivering nostrils. pity!
wrath blew through him like a winter wind. she might betray him—he who was playing the king—if he had betrayed himself to her in that one flash of the eyes! he set his teeth. and then from some more passionate memory a braver faith leapt to the challenge. what ignoble thoughts were these! she was alive, but what might life have meant to her, to a falcon with a broken wing? he seemed to see merlin grinning at him from under his cowl—merlin with the lean and hungry mouth and the big teeth that glistened.
his heart cried out with new passion, “isoult, isoult!”
he found salisbury riding at his side and staring at him with curious eyes.
“sir, you look grim.”
fulk twisted out a smile.
“good sir, that may be true. i would ask for nothing better than to trample on these gentry as one tramples on corn.”
“s’death, go gently. speak them fair. make promises. we must humour the beast till we have the twitch on his nose.”
“the king makes for the king to break. my lord, i take you.”
so “the king behind the king” rode on.
isoult was still standing in the wagon, staring like a blind woman at the white tower. the brown figures beside her had swarmed down to follow the king’s banners, and the crowd had melted like mist, some hundreds of the rougher sort charging down to the gate that had been seized by wat the tiler and jack straw.
a man climbed into the wagon and touched her shoulder, and, turning sharply, she looked into the eyes of guy the stallion.
“come, girl, all the fun of the fair! am i to miss it because i am your gallant?”
she let him draw her to the tail end of the wagon, but when he sprang down and would have put his arms about her to lift her to the ground she repulsed him fiercely.
“off, fool!”
he snarled, and showed his teeth.
“i hold the end of the leash, my falcon, and, by cock, you are too fine a bird to be lost.”
she went with him, mute with scorn, yet conscious of her own helplessness and that she was at the mercy of such men as these. moreover, she was still blinded to all other things but that vision of fulk ferrers, turned king, and riding a great white horse. she might have let him go by with nothing more than astonishment that two mortal creatures should be so alike, but for the way his eyes had fallen on her.
as they passed through the gate she glanced at guy, who carried his naked sword over his shoulder, and her heart leapt in her at the thought of the bold game fulk was playing. how had it come about? where was the real king? why had the great lords ventured on such a hazard? had they set him up with his hawk’s eyes and the proud throw back of his head to play a part that was beyond the courage of the stripling richard? would he carry it through, tame this herd of wild beasts, and turn them again into quiet oxen? and what if the trick were discovered? what of merlin, the grey friar?
she heard guy rap out an oath.
“bones of the saints, here’s blood!”
a shouting mob came pouring through one of the inner gateways. carried in the midst, like a man in a mill-race, was simon of sudbury, the archbishop, and chancellor. his vestments had been half torn from him. his white face was splashed with blood, the mouth awry, the eyes staring.
guy pressed isoult back against a wall.
“s’death, they have caught master simon! i know that fat face of his.”
wat the tiler broke away from the crowd, and his beard was all froth and spittle from shouting.
“friend guy, there are swine to be stuck in yonder. rout them out—the prior of st. john, and some of lancaster’s rats.”
he stared hard into isoult’s eyes.
“go and show the red queen a fine colour. simon of sudbury’s head is going to dance on a pike.”
when the mob had passed guy seized her wrist and drew her on, and she went with him, mutely, as though the old isoult were dead in her, the isoult who could rule men with a flash of the eyes. she thought of fulk on his white horse riding out proudly to face these boors, and she prayed fiercely that he might fool them. she was weary of this mob adventure; and, loathing these hinds with a great loathing, she believed once more in the pride of the sword, scorning the baser clay that stank of the potter’s hands.
they reached the great court about the white tower, and here bedlam—a bloody bedlam—had been let loose. the mob swarmed everywhere. they had driven a dozen of the king’s knights into a corner and were pulling their beards and spitting in their faces. two hacked bodies lay close to the chapel entry, the bodies of two of john of gaunt’s men who had been caught in his hated colours. from the windows of the white tower came yells and curses. a man leant out, waving a red hand.
“taken—taken—bully robert hales!”
the mob roared.
“bring him out! throw him down!”
a whirl of figures came down the outer steps with an old man in their midst. his fierce white beard stuck out under a grim mouth; the swineherds and scullions had not cowed him.
they dragged him this way and that, like hounds pulling at a fox.
“a horse-block! a horse-block!”
one was found and rolled forward, and sir robert hales thrown across it, face upwards, his hands clutching the air.
guy rushed forward, and jostled through.
“my stroke, sirs. room, room! i’ll do’t at one swash!”
isoult quailed, and turned away.
the door of the white tower stood open at the head of the steps down which the men of kent had dragged sir robert hales. the steps themselves were deserted for the moment, and isoult climbed them and fled into the cool gloom of the great tower, trying to forget the sight of the old man flung face upwards across the horse-block. a desire to escape from these wretches seized her, and she fled along passages and up stairways, knowing not where she went, but seeking for some place where she might hide.
loud laughter and a pother of rough voices broke suddenly from a room at the top of a short flight of broad steps. isoult heard the proud, but appealing voice of a woman and the laughter seemed to falter and die down.
the door was half open, and isoult, gliding along the wall, climbed the steps and peered through the gap at the hinges.
it was a noble room hung with sky-blue arras dusted with silver stars, and over by the window stood a great bed covered with a canopy of purple cloth. hutches and chests had been broken open, and rich clothes and stuffs of cloth of silver and gold had been scattered about the floor. in the bed sat the princess, the king’s mother, white as her own night gear. three women cowered in a corner. a dozen or more peasants were crowded round, snapping their fingers in the princess’s face, jeering, and threatening to pull the clothes from her, and thrusting the points of their pikes into the bed.
“men of kent, have you forgotten edward the black prince?”
she faced them fearlessly, in spite of deathly fear, and the white pride of her face was like a white flame, keeping the men back. they were awed and, a little ashamed, faltered, grinned at each other, and then slunk back towards the door.
isoult hid herself in a dark recess in the thickness of the wall, and they went crowding down the stairs past her.
“i’ve seen the king’s mother a’bed, jock!”
“that be some’at to remember!”
isoult was still in hiding when one of the princess’s women came to the door and ran down the flight of steps. she looked this way and that like a frightened deer, and then, putting her hands to her mouth, called up the great stairway.
“eustace! geoffrey!”
she stood listening, her face strained and expectant. down the stairway came two men, descending step by step, the one in front craning his head forward to see that the way was clear.
“quick, for the love of our lady. the wretches have been here!”
they disappeared with the woman into the princess’s room.
some instinct kept isoult hidden in the dark recess. she heard voices, eager, conspiring voices that spoke in hurrying undertones. then, footsteps approached. the door creaked; there was the sound of heavy breathing. a woman came out and went gliding down the stairs to see that they were clear. she called back, “come.”
isoult saw the princess carried out on a mattress laid upon the frame of a pallet bed. the men were at the head and foot, a woman at each side. a purple quilt covered the princess, who lay with a veil thrown over her head.
they disappeared round a bend of the stairs, and curiosity made isoult follow them, shadowing them round each corner and along each gallery as they went down and down into the deeps of the tower. she nearly betrayed herself at the end of a long, dim passage where a door had to be opened and the princess’s bed forced through.
then an oblong patch of daylight shone out abruptly. a flight of steps went up towards it, and isoult saw the bed-bearers struggling up towards the light.
near the top of the steps one of the men missed his footing and slipped sideways against the wall. the bed tilted. there was a cry. one of the women clutched the princess, but isoult saw a lad’s head and shoulders jerked out from under the quilt.
there was a moment’s agony. the bed was righted; the lad thrust back under the quilt. one of the women who had crept on ahead came back, waving them forward. the knot of figures struggled out into the daylight and disappeared from isoult’s view.
she ran up the steps, and her eyes came level with the flagstones of a small courtyard. the men and women had carried the bed across it, and were disappearing through a doorway in the opposite wall. one of the women glanced back anxiously over her shoulder, for she could hear men coming down a long slope that led into the courtyard. she did not see isoult.
then they vanished through the doorway, and isoult climbed the last steps, and running across the court, laid her cheek to the doorpost, and peered round. a sloping passage went down under a vaulted roof, and at the end of it she saw water swishing to and fro, and the legs of a man standing beside the black snout of a barge.
all of a sudden she understood. richard the king was hidden in that bed, and they were smuggling him out of the tower lest this bold trick should be betrayed.
she heard voices behind her, and starting back into the courtyard, found herself looking into the eyes of guy the stallion. he carried a bloody sword over his shoulder, and some of the lowest curs from out of the city were at his heels.
“hullo, my wench, what tricks have you been playing?”
he caught her by the bosom, and she humoured him, knowing fulk’s peril and her own.
“playing at hide and seek with the knight of the bloody sword, o brave sir guy!”
she laughed in his face.
“come. i hear the princess is above. i have a desire to look on a princess.”
“by cock, you shall. we’ll show her a comelier woman than herself.”
