“Swear troth to us for one more day. By God, lad, I love the fettle in you. You are my hawk. I flew you. Never a royal bird flew better. Comrade in arms——!” They gripped hands of a sudden. “Knollys, I’ll do it. Troth—for another day, though my heart is out yonder.” “Trust me, lad. I’ll send out beaters and prickers. The rose shall not be worn on a churl’s coat.” Yet Fulk slept but little that night, for the thought of Isoult was like fire in him—Isoult, who had come from death to life, with her red lips and her coal-black hair. He thought of Merlin and the Stallion and those beasts of the field, and the hot youth in him grew mad and furious. Was this rich rose to be torn and crushed by such hands? Dawn came, and Fulk, restless, hot-eyed, and impatient, stood at the window and looked out towards the sunrise. Roofs, towers, and pinnacles were black against the yellow east, and although it was but daybreak the dark web of the city seemed to tremble with hidden life. From somewhere came a murmur of voices. In more than one black tower bells were ringing. The door of the King’s chamber opened, and Cavendish stood there with the look of a man out to meet foul weather. “What news, Cavendish?” “Sleet and wind, sir. The day may be rougher than yesterday. My Lords Salisbury and Warwick, and Walworth the Mayor have never seen their beds.” “And our good friends—the Commons?” “There is the peril, sir. Those screech owls, John Ball and Jack Straw, have been flying through the city. Many of those who marched off yesterday have marched back again. Our spies have been out since sunset. Wat spoke at Paul’s Cross at midnight—bloody words, I promise you. They say the King’s charters are not to be trusted.” He laughed grimly, ironically. “If the fools knew! We have been gathering what power we can. Knollys has several hundred men hidden round about his quarters. Perducas d’Albreth has his free companions. Walworth promises to do what he can with the city bands.” “And the day’s business? By my sword, Cavendish, I am ready to stretch my wings.” “We play the game boldly, sir. Clerks have been scribbling charters all night, and it is our wisdom to put a bold face on it. We ride to Westminster to hear Mass.” Fulk’s eyes shone. “What of Knollys? Is he here?” “Knollys bides with his men, ready to make a sally, should it come to blows.” “He sent me no message?” “Not a word.” That Saturday morning Fulk rode to Westminster at the head of no more than sixty souls. No one came out to see them; no one shouted “God save the King!” The highway was empty, the houses shuttered and dumb; but within the walls the city hummed like a hive, for Wat and Merlin had heard that the King had ridden out.