It was a grey dawn, because of the mist on the river, with a promise of
heat and of a cloudless sky. On London Bridge the houses looked as
though they were smothered in white smoke, and the river went gliding
stealthily with hardly a ripple against the piers. A great,
straw-coloured sun hung blurred in the east, and when some bell tolled
the sound was heavy and distant.
Grey, too, was the friar who sat on a wooden bench against the wall of a
house and waited for the gate of the bridge to open. The friar’s cowl
was drawn down over his face; his beads hung in a brown loop, and his
hands played with them restlessly—hands with big knuckles, and black
hair spreading from the wrists.
Sometimes he threw his head back and looked at the battlements of the
Bridge Gate. There were two heads up yonder, stuck upon spikes, and
Merlin had seen them outlined against the sky when the dawn was
breaking—two round, black shapes, sinister and stiff. And now that the
day had dawned, he looked up at the two heads, with their ragged necks,
the heads of John Ball and of Jack Straw.
Merlin’s eyes were red, but not with weeping. A ferocious, grinning
scorn betrayed itself as he stared at the head of the Priest of Kent. He
had not loved John Ball, because John Ball had been too much loved by
the people.
He began to talk to the head ironically, yet with arrogance.
“Come, good Jack, what dreams dreamest thou up yonder? That tongue of
thine will turn to leather, and thy head grow brown like a rotten apple.
And thou hast never loved a woman! What hast thou to boast of? What hast
thou enjoyed? They deserted thee and ran—thy brave children, thou
friend of the poor, thou father of rats! The poor!”
He struck his chest with his fist.
“We have been fooled, but Merlin’s head is on his shoulders. I have a
game to play. They would have stuck my head up yonder had I not gone
about boldly and not slunk in a cellar. The grey frock serves.”
He stared at Jack Straw.
“Prithee, Jack, didst thou not desire Isoult? Fool, where is thy body
now? But Merlin lives; he will strike and he will love. Courage! It is
good to lie in a great lord’s pocket. Put no faith in the poor.”
The city began to stir itself. A lad driving an ass with panniers piled
with vegetables came up the street to the gate. A cart laden with
charcoal lumbered up, followed by more carts full of sacks and hay.
Heads poked out of windows; a child squalled; doors opened. An old woman
who sold hot pies came and set up a board close to Father Merlin, and
asked him for a blessing.
He blessed her and her pies, and his long jowl looked hungry.
“Good father, is it a fast day?”
“No, goodwife; I will eat—and thou shalt be paid in heaven.”
She gave him half a pie on a dock leaf, and Merlin made a meal.
The gate had opened, and the carts rolled over London Bridge. Merlin
followed them, drawing his cowl down and walking like one deep in holy
meditation, his hands muffled in his sleeves. Merlin passed little
companies of men pushing over the bridge—men with cowed and sullen
faces, who were slinking back to the villages whence they had marched
with such noise and tumult. The city itself still owned an air of
emptiness and of fear. Companies of men-at-arms were riding through the
streets, seeing that no crowd rallied, and whenever he heard the clatter
of hoofs Merlin drew aside into a passage or doorway.
It was still very early when he came to Carter Street and sat down on
the horse-block outside the gate of the Wardrobe. The gate had not
opened yet; the street was empty.
Merlin told his beads. He was in a white sweat of fear, for this
audacity of his meant that his neck was stretched out under the edge of
an axe. His eyes were red and restless under his grey cowl. So much hung
on the temper of a groom or a servant.
He heard chains fall and bars withdrawn. The gate opened. A fat,
red-headed porter came and stood in the entry, straddling wide with his
feet, his thumbs tucked into his belt. He sighted the grey friar and
stared.
Merlin rose and went to the gate.
“My son, I have watched all the night, for my need is urgent. Life and
death hang on it. I must see the King.”
The porter eyed him apprisingly.
“The King is abed, Master Friar.”
Merlin pulled out his crucifix and held it towards the man.
“My friend, would you win the King’s thanks? I have words that are for
the King’s ear, and for his alone. I know what I know. See—I kiss the
Cross; now let your lips touch it.”
The porter obeyed him.
“My son, I will make thee serve God, St. Francis, and the King. I will
put fifty gold pieces into thy pocket, for the King will give thee
whatsoever I shall ask. Take me to the King’s chamber. Let no one
meddle. Thou canst search me if thou thinkest me a fool with a knife.”
The porter led him into his lodge, and searched him from top to toe.
“Now, speed thee; let no lords and busybodies meddle; my words are for
the King alone.”
This fat fellow did not guess that Merlin’s skin was like the skin of a
goose, all cold prickles, and yet ready to sweat. So much hung on the
chances of the moment. The King’s chamber was Heaven, the courtyard and
passages and stairs that led to it part of a hazardous Valley of Death.
One shrewd glance from some loitering gentleman, and Merlin’s head might
join the heads of John Ball and Jack Straw.
Luck was with him. A sleepy squire, not the grim Cavendish, was yawning
on a bench outside the door of the King’s chamber. Words passed between
the porter and the squire, and the porter was thinking of possible
favours, for what harm could there be in chancing that this friar would
do what he said?
The squire consented to waken the King. Merlin won through. The squire
returned, yawning behind his hand.
“Come, Grey Brother, the King will speak with you.”
The shutters had been thrown open, and through the traceried windows a
patterning of sunlight poured down upon the oak floor. Richard was abed,
blinking and stretching his arms. He rolled over and looked at Merlin
with sleepy eyes.
Merlin made the sign of the cross.
“_Pax Dei_, O King!”
“What would you, good father?”
“Sir, I am a humble friar, but one who wishes the King well. In these
troublous times all men do not speak the truth.”
His eyes had scanned the lad’s face with a veiled but fierce eagerness,
and a sudden exultation leapt in him. He had tempted Death, but Death
and Fulk Ferrers were not in the bed—nothing but the real King, a King
who had lain hidden through the roughest hours of the storm. For two
days Merlin had been asking himself questions, and his subtlety had
unravelled the riddle.
He approached the bed.
“Sir, I would speak with you alone.”
Richard looked at him suspiciously.
“Why should I listen to you, friar?”
“Because, sir, I shall speak of a traitor and of a bastard thing that is
dangerous to you.”
Richard rose on one elbow, his face sharpening.
“Ah! I will hear you. Miles, out of the room; but guard the door. Let no
one enter unless I call.”
The squire left Merlin standing there with folded hands, hiding
exultation with humility.
“Now, Master Friar.”
“Sir, I, a son of St. Francis, walking the ways of this wicked world,
have heard many strange things, learnt many strange secrets. I came to
London with the rebels.”
Richard sat up in bed, and his eyes were mistrustful.
“The rebels, say you?”
Merlin held up his crucifix.
“My son, have no fear. I was with them, to serve at a crisis. I spoke to
them of peace and goodwill, but sometimes God bids us hate when hatred
is just and good. Hear me.”
He leant forward and began to speak in whispers, his libidinous lips
moving quickly under the shadow of his cowl. The lad in bed seemed
bewitched; he did not move or utter a word, but his eyes were full of
sinister lights. Merlin watched him. Hate was beckoning to an
unconfessed hate, bidding it show itself and come out into the open. He
had guessed cunningly, and he had guessed well.
Merlin saw a curious tremor pass through the King’s body. One hand
crumpled up the quilt.
“Good father, my heart burns in me. Have they not caused me to hate and
to distrust?”
It was he who spoke now—Merlin who listened.
“I was sick in soul, and these lords stormed at me. It was a cunning
plot. I see it now. And you—you charge these noble uncles of mine with
treason?”
Merlin spread his hands.
“Whom does Fulk Ferrers serve? In whose forest has he been hidden all
these years? The Duke of Lancaster should know the why and the
wherefore.”
“Traitor that he is! And Thomas of Woodstock—what of Thomas of
Woodstock?”
“Why has he hidden himself in Wales? To wait—and to watch. This woman,
Isoult of the Rose, is his spy.”
Richard sat rigid, white to the lips.
“Good father, whom can a King trust?”
“My hate, sir, is your hatred.”
“This Fulk Ferrers?”
“Can two Kings live? No peace will be yours while schemers have this
puppet to play with.”
Their eyes met, and a kind of leering hatred showed in them. Merlin drew
his stool closer to the bed. He began to speak in eager whispers, and
Richard listened and smiled.
“Enough! You shall serve.”
He began to whisper in turn.
“These Lords of the Council have told me their plan. This Fulk Ferrers
and the woman are to be hidden. Now I may guess the why and the
wherefore.”
“Speak, sir.”
“They ride to-night.”
“Whither?”
“In Surrey I have a manor called the Manor of the Black Mere, a very
secret place. The fellow is to grow a beard, and therefore he takes the
woman with him that she may watch it grow.”
He laughed, but Merlin’s eyes blazed.
“Sir, God shall deal out justice.”
“And I will deal out favour. Take this ring.”
He slipped a ring off his finger, a gold circle set with diamonds and
rubies, and with a signet attached—two “R’s” intertwined.
“The white and red. This shall be your pledge and proof. I am the King.
I will deal with traitors as I please.”
Merlin rose up and crossed himself.
“Sir, there shall be silence. All lips shall be sealed.”