They had sat like
flint, and the Italian shrank from their inexorable eyes. He
looked swiftly round, but armed men choked every entrance. The
shadow of death had fallen athwart his soul.
"This letter," said the King, "was given by de Chargny to one Dom
Beauvais, a priest of St. Omer, to carry into Calais. The said
priest, smelling a reward, brought it to one who is my faithful
servant, and so it came to me. Straightway I sent for this man
that he should come to me. Meanwhile the priest has returned so
that de Chargny may think that his message is indeed delivered."
"I know nothing of it," said the Italian doggedly, licking his dry
lips.
A dark flush mounted to the King's forehead, and his eyes were
gorged with his wrath. "No more of this, for God's dignity!" he
cried. "Had we this fellow at the Tower, a few turns of the rack
would tear a confession from his craven soul. But why should we
need his word for his own guilt? You have seen, my lords, you
have heard! How say you, fair son? Is the man guilty?"
"Sire, he is guilty."
"And you, John? And you, Walter? And you, Hubert? And you, my
Lord Bishop? You are all of one mind, then. He is guilty of the
betrayal of his trust. And the punishment?"
"It can only be death," said the Prince, and each in turn the
others nodded their agreement.
"Aymery of Pavia, you have heard your doom," said Edward, leaning
his chin upon his hand and glooming at the cowering Italian.
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