“He who has most cause to benefit, surely,” suggested someone at last.
“There's but one man who stands more firmly through the slaughter of King Edward's innocent sons,” persisted the farmer, uninhibited by such townsmen's caution.
“King Richard is miles away making a circuit of the north,” Father Ambrose reminded him sternly.
“But, absent or present, there be those left at the Tower who still do his bidding,” mimicked a falconer from the Abbot's mews, remembering what the upstart young corporal had said.
“And mighty popular he makes himself, remitting fines and prison sentences and such,” added his mate.
The slender lad in black who had stumbled seemed to have recovered himself. To the amazement of all, he suddenly flung himself upon the bearer of the hideous tale. “ How were they murdered?” he demanded, clutching at the other's coarse jerkin as if he would shake the truth out of him.
The hefty young swineherd goggled in surprise. “In their beds, they do say,” he stammered.
“'They say' again!” raged the clear, accusing voice. “But, in God's name, do you know ?”
“How should I, fool?” countered the country boy, fending him off.
“Then speak no more out of your ignorance, rending people's hearts!” cried the one in black, fetching him a stinging welt across the face with his open palm.
The placid peasant's anger was roused at last. He swung back a red ham of a fist which would have persuaded an ox from one furrow to the next. In that moment the lads' two faces, coarse and cultured, came very close; and some vague recollection, stirring at the back of his slow mind, must have stayed the blow. His mouth gaped and his arm fell to his side. Not until his whirlwind of an aggressor had vanished through the backstairs door did his wits begin to function. “'Twas like our true King,” he said, awe-struck. “I saw him when they brought him through London. Close I was to him as I am to you, reverend Sir. And all white and pale he looked, just like him.”
“'Twas his very clothes,” confirmed a Smithfield man, who had often watched royalty at the tournaments.
“And the way he spoke—with that clipped Norman accent.”
“Must have been the poor King's ghost,” muttered the credulous old falconer.
And, to be on the safe side, the two lay brothers crossed themselves.
“Ghosts don't talk such common sense. Follow the fellow and bring him back,” ordered Father Ambrose, despairing of ever getting any work done in his kitchen that day. But they all hung back. No one wanted to be the first to climb the dark and winding backstairs for fear of what they might meet there. And by the time the hard-breathing pack of them had pushed each other to the top the gallery leading to the living-rooms was deserted, and colour would be added to any tale that might be told against the usurper because every man among them would believe until his dying day that he had seen the avenging ghost of unfortunate young Edward the Fifth.
U NAWARE OF WHAT HER reluctant pursuers thought, Elizabeth regained her room. She, too, was thankful to find the gallery deserted; and more thankful still for the privacy of her small, makeshift apartments. She shot the bolt and leaned breathless against the door. “It can't be true! It can't be true! Uncle Richard couldn't have done it!” she kept telling herself. “That fellow was only a village half-wit, and the people will believe anything.” She began fumbling with shaking fingers at the unfamiliar lacings of her brother's suit. “Instead of giving up my project I ought to have slipped out while they were all gaping, and by now I might have seen them—Edward and Richard—moving about in the ordinary sunlight, living…” She had peeled off Edward's hose and now stared down at it, lying coiled and empty as a dead thing about her feet. “But of what use to go if they be dead?” She shuddered, shutting out the significant sight with both
“There's but one man who stands more firmly through the slaughter of King Edward's innocent sons,” persisted the farmer, uninhibited by such townsmen's caution.
“King Richard is miles away making a circuit of the north,” Father Ambrose reminded him sternly.
“But, absent or present, there be those left at the Tower who still do his bidding,” mimicked a falconer from the Abbot's mews, remembering what the upstart young corporal had said.
“And mighty popular he makes himself, remitting fines and prison sentences and such,” added his mate.
The slender lad in black who had stumbled seemed to have recovered himself. To the amazement of all, he suddenly flung himself upon the bearer of the hideous tale. “ How were they murdered?” he demanded, clutching at the other's coarse jerkin as if he would shake the truth out of him.
The hefty young swineherd goggled in surprise. “In their beds, they do say,” he stammered.
“'They say' again!” raged the clear, accusing voice. “But, in God's name, do you know ?”
“How should I, fool?” countered the country boy, fending him off.
“Then speak no more out of your ignorance, rending people's hearts!” cried the one in black, fetching him a stinging welt across the face with his open palm.
The placid peasant's anger was roused at last. He swung back a red ham of a fist which would have persuaded an ox from one furrow to the next. In that moment the lads' two faces, coarse and cultured, came very close; and some vague recollection, stirring at the back of his slow mind, must have stayed the blow. His mouth gaped and his arm fell to his side. Not until his whirlwind of an aggressor had vanished through the backstairs door did his wits begin to function. “'Twas like our true King,” he said, awe-struck. “I saw him when they brought him through London. Close I was to him as I am to you, reverend Sir. And all white and pale he looked, just like him.”
“'Twas his very clothes,” confirmed a Smithfield man, who had often watched royalty at the tournaments.
“And the way he spoke—with that clipped Norman accent.”
“Must have been the poor King's ghost,” muttered the credulous old falconer.
And, to be on the safe side, the two lay brothers crossed themselves.
“Ghosts don't talk such common sense. Follow the fellow and bring him back,” ordered Father Ambrose, despairing of ever getting any work done in his kitchen that day. But they all hung back. No one wanted to be the first to climb the dark and winding backstairs for fear of what they might meet there. And by the time the hard-breathing pack of them had pushed each other to the top the gallery leading to the living-rooms was deserted, and colour would be added to any tale that might be told against the usurper because every man among them would believe until his dying day that he had seen the avenging ghost of unfortunate young Edward the Fifth.
U NAWARE OF WHAT HER reluctant pursuers thought, Elizabeth regained her room. She, too, was thankful to find the gallery deserted; and more thankful still for the privacy of her small, makeshift apartments. She shot the bolt and leaned breathless against the door. “It can't be true! It can't be true! Uncle Richard couldn't have done it!” she kept telling herself. “That fellow was only a village half-wit, and the people will believe anything.” She began fumbling with shaking fingers at the unfamiliar lacings of her brother's suit. “Instead of giving up my project I ought to have slipped out while they were all gaping, and by now I might have seen them—Edward and Richard—moving about in the ordinary sunlight, living…” She had peeled off Edward's hose and now stared down at it, lying coiled and empty as a dead thing about her feet. “But of what use to go if they be dead?” She shuddered, shutting out the significant sight with both
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