A flare of light leapt into Fulk’s eyes. His figure seemed to dilate, to
tower higher on his white horse. He was lifted up, the god of a great
moment.
The peasants were bending their bows. Bills, pikes, scythes, and clubs
waved in the air. Their shouts were like the cries of wild beasts.
Fulk drove the spurs into his horse and rode forward.
“Sirs, what would you? Listen to me—your King.”
They faltered and stood still, staring upon him, their bows half bent,
their weapons wavering.
Out before them all leapt a fanatic figure, a figure in a brown smock
and green hood, a figure that tossed its arms and foamed at the mouth.
It was Merlin, inarticulate for the moment, smothered by his own frenzy.
“A lie, a lie! Hear, men of the fields!”
A second figure sprang forward, waving a red kerchief. It was Isoult.
Fulk saw the crest of the wave about to break on him and his company.
Merlin’s mouth was a red circle, open to shout the truth. Then a closed
hand swept up and round, and opened its fingers within a foot of its
face. Never had simpler stuff served more nobly. Merlin’s mouth and eyes
were full of red pepper.
He choked, ground his knuckles into his eyes, tried to speak, but was
bent double with anguish.
Isoult stood forward, laughing, and waving her kerchief.
“A jest, a noble jest! The King, the King!”
His voice carried.
“Sirs, the King—our King! Hear him!”
Fulk turned in the saddle, and spoke to Cavendish, who had followed him.
“Cavendish, as you love honour, look to that woman yonder. Guard her for
me with your life. Bring Wat’s horse to me. Speed!”
He spurred his horse, and rode forward to the very edge of the crowd,
looking on these men of the fields with masterful eyes and holding up a
hand for silence.
“Sirs, sirs, I am your King. We have slain a traitor—a traitor who
dared to lay a hand upon his sword. Follow me. I—King Richard—will be
your captain.”
Some cheered, others looked at him sullenly. He rode his white horse to
and fro in front of them, and then drew rein beside Isoult.
“A horse—a horse!”
Cavendish came leading dead Wat’s black horse. Fulk looked at Isoult,
and she at him, and in that glance all their valour and passion met and
mingled.
“Sirs, I am King Richard. Behold the Queen of the Commons. Behold your
Queen!”
Isoult understood. Cavendish gave her his hand and knee, and she was on
the black horse’s back, facing the crowd and smiling.
Fulk saluted her; eyes and heart were in that homage.
“Men of England, behold the Queen of the Commons. I am Richard, your
captain. Now, by the splendour of God, I charge you follow me.”
He had won them. They cheered, surged round him, waving their caps and
hoods on the points of their bows and bills. Merlin, a coughing,
sneezing, impotently raging thing, was smothered in the eddies of the
crowd. Fulk stretched out a hand for Isoult’s. He spoke to her, looking
in her eyes.
“My desire, I had thought you dead.”
“I am alive, to soar with you, brave falcon.”
She gazed at him with strange, passionate pride.
“Ah, King of the Burning Heart!”
“I am the green leaf of the rose. By my soul, I know that you dared
death.”
He kissed her hand before them all, and the mob shouted.
“Long live King Richard and the Queen of the Commons.”
When they would give him silence he shouted, “Sirs, follow me.”
And they followed him like sheep into the open fields about Islington.
Isoult’s eyes were on Fulk as they rode, but now and again she glanced
back at the crowding faces of the mob.
“What will you do with them?”
“Bide my time. Men are coming who will not fail us.”
He did not trust in vain. Fulk had drawn rein, and the mob had spread
out over a stretch of grass land, trampling the uncut hay under their
feet when a cloud of dust arose between them and the city. Spear points
and pennons caught the sunlight, and across the fields Robert Knollys
came riding at the head of a thousand men. They bulked bigger than their
number, thundering in close order, trumpets screaming, spears bristling,
with a clash and jingle of steel. Behind them came Walworth the Mayor,
at the head of certain city bands, bows strung, and brown bills
flashing.
“Come.”
Fulk seized the bridle of Isoult’s horse, clapped in the spurs, and rode
to meet Knollys’ great company. They opened and let him through. He drew
rein before the forest of spears, and halted them with upraised arm.
Knollys rode forward.
“Sir, by the splendour of God, let our trumpets sound, and let us
trample these wretches into the grass.”
“No, by God; for they have trusted me. They shall go unharmed. Send
Walworth to me. He shall speak to them.”
The mob hung there, wavering, and making a discordant and querulous
clamour. They were without leaders, and cowed and dumbfounded by
Knollys’ spears.
Walworth came riding up, and Fulk spoke with him.
“Walworth, good friend, down on your knees. This shall be remembered.”
He knighted him, smiling as he bent to touch him with his sword.
“My hand is as good as another’s. Now, Sir Mayor, ride to those men
yonder, demand my banners, say that I am merciful, that I have held back
those who would have slaughtered them. Bid them depart—each man to his
own home.”
Walworth rode forward and spoke to them, and then Fulk and his fellows
beheld a wonderful, strange sight. It was as though the bank of a pool
had given way, and the brown wash of that multitude of heads and faces
broke and flowed away on every side. They surrendered the banners and
fled, swarming over the fields in ragged masses, some flying towards the
city, others into the open country. This revolt was repulsed, broken,
scattered.
Fulk sat on his horse and watched them, and a strange light came into
his eyes. He heard Knollys speaking.
“Now are they like sheep that but an hour ago were very wolves. And one
man has conquered them.”
Fulk turned to him.
“No, by God; but for a woman’s wit we should have been beaten into the
dust.”
His eyes sought Isoult.
“Now have we soared together, you and I, into the blue.”