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.”