Now this was the time on which Master Richard had determined for himself, but for a moment he could not cry out:  it seemed as if the fiend had gripped him by the throat and were hammering in his bowels.  The King turned to the steps, and at that sight Master Richard was enabled to speak.

He had not resolved what to say, but to leave that to what God should put in his mouth, and this is what he cried, in a voice that all could hear.

“News from our Lord!  News from our Lord, your grace.”

He said that when he cried that, that was first silence, and then such a clamour as he had never heard nor thought to hear.  He was pushed this way and that; one tore at his shoulder from behind; one struck him on the head:  he heard himself named madman, feeble-wit, knave, fond fellow.  The guards in front turned themselves about, and made as though they would run at the crowd with their weapons, and at that the men left off heaving at Master Richard, and went back, babbling and crying out.

Then he cried out again with all his might.

“I bring tidings from my Lord God to my lord the King,” and went forward to the barrier, still looking at the King who had turned and looked back at him with sick, troubled eyes, not knowing what to do.

A fellow seized Master Richard by the throat and pulled him against the barrier, menacing him with his glaive, but the King said something, raising his hand, and there fell a silence.

“What is your business, sir?” asked the King.

The fellow released Master Richard and stood aside.

“I bring tidings from our Lord,” said the young man.  He was all out of breath, he told me, with the pushing and striking, and held on to the red-painted barrier with both hands.

The King stooped and whispered with at cardinal, who was plucking him by the sleeve, for the space of a paternoster, and the murmuring began to break out again.  Then he turned, and lifted his hand once more for silence.

“What are the tidings, sir?”

“They are for your private ear, your grace.”

“Nay,” said the King, “we have no private ear but for God’s Word.”

“This is God’s Word,” said Master Richard.

There was laughter at that, and the crowd came nearer again, but the King did not laugh.  He stood still, looking this way and that, now on Master Richard, and now on the cardinal, who was pulling again at sleeve.  It seemed as if he could not determine what to do.

Then he spoke again.

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am a solitary, named Richard Raynal,” said the young man.  “I come from the country, from ... [It is most annoying that the name of the village is wanting.] Sir John Chaldfield, the parson, will undertake for me, your grace.”

“Is Sir John here?” asked my lord cardinal, smiling at the clerks.

“No, my lord,” said Master Richard, “he has his sheep in the wilderness.  He cannot run about to Court.”