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.”