Friday’s dawn came in stealthily, with a mist that foretold heat,
masking the windings of the river. The King’s standard on the White
Tower hung in folds against the pole, and haze covered the city, a
silver fog through which the towers and steeples struck, sending their
wind vanes and fleches to glitter in the sunlight.
Knollys and Walworth the Mayor were on the platform of the White Tower
soon after dawn, peering down like hawks into the dark spaces outside
the walls. What would the mob’s temper be? What manner of sunset would
follow this stealthy dawn? There was much movement down yonder. All
through the night a restless murmur had risen from the streets and
alleys. Seen through the haze, the square of St. Catharine looked like a
stagnant pool swarming with tadpoles.
Soon after dawn hundreds of peasants came crowding to the gates and
walls. They crowed like cocks, and the conceit seemed to please them.
“Cock-a-doodle-do!”
“Up, all slug-a-beds! St. George and the King!”
They took up the cry.
“Ha, for King Richard and the Commons! Send us out our King.”
Other great lords joined Knollys and Walworth on the platform of the
White Tower. They stood in a group, close to the drooping standard,
listening to the cries of the mob. Their faces were very grave and grim.
“To-day’s game is a game of chess, sirs, and it is the King’s move.
Knights, castles, and bishops are of no account.”
“All hangs on the courage of a bastard!”
“A good hawk or I’m no judge. Let’s fly him.”
Salisbury struck the standard pole with his fist.
“St. George and King Richard for Merrie England! That is our cry. The
lad shall serve. Let these hinds march to Mile End, and meet the King
face to face. We will send our trumpeters to the outer gate. Now God in
heaven alone knows what this day will bring.”
It was six o’clock when trumpets sounded from the outer gate and a
herald wearing the King’s coat stood out against the sky line. Thousands
of heads came crowding forward. The herald held up his hand for silence,
and his big voice carried.
“Give heed, give heed!”
Someone bawled, “Crow, good cock!”
“St. George and King Richard for England! Ye Commons and good men all,
take heed, and hear the words of the King. ‘I will come forth and speak
with my people, and meet them face to face. None shall stand between us.
I, Richard the King, am King!’ Therefore, sirs, march you to Mile End
peaceably, in good order, like honest fellows. The King will ride out
and bring you banners. Shout for St. George and King Richard!”
And shout they did, like madmen.
The King’s company gathered in the great court, while the King heard
Mass in the chapel, Simon of Sudbury serving at the altar, little
thinking that it was to be his last Mass. Salisbury, Warwick, Knollys,
Walworth, and Cavendish were with the bastard King. He walked in their
midst down the stairway, and they held close to him when he came out
from the gloom of the entry into the full June sunlight.
His banners were gathered below. Trumpets blew; the men of the guard
tossed their pikes. All eyes sought the King. He was in red and white, a
light gold crown set upon his velvet cap, his sword at his side, a rich
collar of gold about his throat, his gloves studded with jewels. He
stood there for a moment at the head of the stairway in the midst of the
great lords, his face white in the sunlight, the proud face of a King.
A great silence held. Those who gazed upon him wondered. It was a King
who had come out to them—not a cringing, frightened boy. The weak
figure had stiffened; the eyes were furtive no longer; the mouth was
straight and purposeful.
But no idle gazing was to be suffered. The great lords kept close about
their King, and stood round him while he mounted his white horse. He
looked at no one, spoke to none, but kept his soul for the great
adventure. The trumpets blew, the banners swayed; King Richard, at the
head of his lords and gentlemen, rode forward to meet the Commons.
Cavendish rode a little behind the King and on his left, a grim man with
watchful eyes. Salisbury and Warwick were close at his heels. Knollys
and Walworth rode with the main company, shadowing the King’s
half-brothers, Sir John Holland and the Earl of Kent.
There was a moment’s halt under the arch of the outer gate, for one of
the bars had jammed in its socket; and while the porters were tugging at
it Knollys came pushing forward till his horse was close to the King’s.
“Sir, a word in your ear.”
He leant over.
“Sir, you have two half-brothers, you remember, apt to be hot-headed
fools. I have caught them giving each other strange looks. The mob does
not love them.”
“Let them bide in the Tower.”
“Sir, it would be better to rid ourselves of them. Take your chance, or
shall I bid them save their skins?”
He beckoned to Salisbury, who edged his horse up. Knollys spoke in a
whisper.
“The Hollands have scented a fox.”
“Send the young hounds hunting it! The two young meddlers!”
Knollys bit his moustache.
“I carry the King’s orders. A word to them—that their heads have been
asked for! We will wait our chance on the way, and smuggle them into the
city to hide.”
“Good, very good.”
One of the porters who had been peering through the grille came to them
with a white face.
“Sirs, the crowd is great without.”
“Tsst! they have marched to Mile End.”
“Sirs, not the Kentish men.”
Fulk waved him aside.
“Well, am I afraid of my own people! Open the gates. Let the trumpets
blow. Now, sirs, for St. George and Richard of England!”
The gate swung back and the young King on the white horse rode out into
the sea of heads and faces. For the moment a great silence held—the
silence of a mistrustful crowd whose goodwill hangs upon the flash of an
eye or the set of a head; but this lad with the crown rode out proudly.
His eyes were steady and fearless, and he smiled at the crowd.
“Good sirs, well met.”
His courage captured them. The cock of his head, the braced-back
shoulders, the blue metal of his eyes, these things counted. These rough
fellows from the fields shouted tumultuously and crowded about him.
“King Richard for Merrie England!”
Fulk stood in his stirrups.
“Sirs, I am Richard your King. To Mile End! Follow my banners.”
The crowd made way for him, and he passed with his company of lords and
gentlemen, who rode close together and scarcely looked at the crowd. The
banners swept under the arch of the gate, and the men of Kent were on
the move—all save a few who seemed to stare and loiter as though a King
and such a company were not to be seen more than once in a lifetime. The
porters were closing the gate when these loiterers gathered suddenly,
rushed in a body through the barriers, hurled back the half-closed gate,
and struck down the guards and porters. They stood there shouting and
tossing their weapons.
The tail of the King’s company was not fifty paces away, and some of the
riders faltered; white faces looked back over half-turned shoulders.
“S’death—they have taken the gate behind us!”
Salisbury spoke through clenched teeth.
“Ride on, ride on, sir. Look not back.”
Fulk had not faltered. He looked at the Kentish men who crowded round
him, and smiled.
“Shout for King Richard, sirs.”
And they cheered him gallantly.
Fulk rode on, to behold a marvel—a marvel that wiped the crowd of faces
away from before his eyes. Halfway across St. Catharine’s Square a wagon
was standing in the thick of the press, with a swarm of brown figures
clinging to it to get a view, and in the front of the wagon, like a red
torch burning amid brushwood, stood Isoult of the Rose.