He drove his nails into her wrist, but her lips remained closed. Fulk saw and understood. There was the secret glitter of a knife in Merlin’s fist. He held it behind Isoult’s left shoulder, and spoke in her ear. “Speak, jade, speak.” “It is the King.” “You lie!” She closed her eyes, and stood rigid. “Strike and have done. I’ll utter no word.” “You jade!” “Strike, and have done.” Wat’s eyes were on them. He turned his horse and cursed Merlin. “Hold, fool!” “The jade will not speak.” “By God’s eyes, I like her for it. Put up that knife, curse you, and leave the bastard to me. I have a voice that will scare the kingliness out of him.” He shouted to the mob behind him. “Brothers, I go to win our kingdom. Stand fast till I brandish my sword. Then rush on them and slay all—all save the lad on the white horse.” He rode out towards Fulk, who was waiting at the head of his knights and gentlemen. Wat made his black horse prance and cut capers, to show these lords that he was something of a horseman. His eyes were fixed insolently on Fulk, as though to cow his courage. “King, seest thou all these men? They have sworn to do whatsoever I shall tell them.” Fulk kept his eyes on Wat’s. “My friend, do not boast of it—too soon.” “What of the charters, King?” “They will be ready by noon.” Wat stared at him meaningly. “All clerks and lawyers are liars, and they serve the King.” Cavendish and Walworth had ridden up close to Fulk, and Wat saw in Cavendish an old enemy who had once given him a thrashing. “God’s eyes, here is the cur Cavendish! Give me thy dagger, Cavendish; I shall have need of it.” Cavendish’s grim face darkened. “Not I. To the bottomless pit with you, son of a whelp.” “To the point of a pike with your head, bully Cavendish. I’ll see to it. What have you there—the King’s sword?” “The King’s sword.” The Tiler leant forward in the saddle, and his eyes were dangerous. “By Jesus! the King’s sword! This fellow here on the white horse has no right to it. Give me the King’s sword.” “I’ll see thee in hell first.” Wat clapped his hand on his own sword. “Am I a fool, ye noble knaves? What, this is no King, but a Prince’s bastard. I know thee, Fulk Ferrers.” He glared in Fulk’s eyes, not noticing Walworth, who was spurring his horse forward. Fulk spoke but two words. “Kill, kill!” The chest of Walworth’s horse struck Wat’s on the flank. A sword flashed, and smote the Tiler across the face. He reeled, toppled out of the saddle, and lay sprawling before the hoofs of Fulk’s white horse. “Kill!” Cavendish was out of the saddle and on him like a hound on a fox. Wat tried to rise, but Cavendish’s dagger went home, once in the throat and twice in the chest. Wat’s body twisted, relaxed, lay still. A great silence held, like the hush in a forest between two gusts of a gathering storm. The mob was mute, staring at the dead body and the King on the white horse. Then a great bellow of rage went up.