3

In a moment the prince was out of the door and running through the palace in his rags. As soon as he reached the gate, he tried to shake it, shouting—

“Open the gate!”

The soldier that had thrown Tom away gave him a box on the ear that sent him to the road.

The crowd laughed. The prince rose out of the mud and shouted—

“I am the Prince of Wales, my person is sacred!” The soldier said mockingly—

“I salute your Highness.” Then angrily—“Be off, you crazy rubbish!”

Here the laughing crowd pushed him down the road, shouting—

“Way for his Royal Highness! Way for the Prince of Wales!”

The prince looked about him. He was in London—that was all he knew. He walked around, and in a little while there were less houses and people around him. He bathed his bleeding feet in the brook, rested a few moments, then continued walking, and presently came upon a great space with only a few scattered houses in it, and a church. He recognised this church. There was scaffolding everywhere, and a lot of workmen; the church was undergoing repairs. The prince felt that this was the end of his troubles. He said to himself, “It is the ancient Grey Friars’ Church, which my father, the king, turned into a home for poor and forsaken children. Gladly will they serve the son of the one that has was so generous to them.”

He was soon found himself in the midst of a crowd of boys who were running, jumping, playing with ball, and right noisily, too. They were all dressed alike.

The boys stopped their play and surrounded about the prince, who said with dignity—

“Good lads, say to your master that Edward Prince of Wales wants to speak with him.”

They all talked at once, and then one of them said—

“Are you his messenger, beggar?”

The prince’s face flushed with anger, and his hand flew to his hip, but there was nothing there. There was a storm of laughter, and one boy said—

“Did you see that? He thought he had a sword—like he is the prince himself.”

This brought more laughter. Poor Edward proudly said—

“I am the prince.”

More laughter again. The boy who had first spoken, shouted to his friends—

“Well, where are your manners? Down on your knees, everyone!”

Laughing, they dropped upon their knees and did mock homage to him. The prince kicked the nearest boy with his foot, and said—

“Take that! Unless you want to hang tomorrow!”

And now this was going beyond fun. The laughter stopped, and fury took its place. A dozen shouted—

“Grab him! To the horse-pond, to the horse-pond!”

And what happened than was a thing England had never seen before—the heir to the throne beaten by commoner hands, and torn by dogs.

As night fell, the prince found himself far down in the poor part of the city. His body was bruised, his hands were bleeding, and his rags were dirty with mud.

He walked on and on, and grew more and more bewildered, and so tired that he could hardly put one foot after the other. He kept muttering to himself, “Offal Court—that is the name; if I can find, then I am saved—his people will take me to the palace and prove that I am the true prince.”

It started raining, the wind rose. The homeless heir to the throne of England still walked on deeper and deeper into the maze of small dirty streets.

Suddenly a big drunken ruffian took him by the collar and said—

“Out so late at night again, and if you have not brought anything home, and I do not break all the bones in your body, then am I not John Canty!”

The prince twisted himself out of the big hand, and said—

“Oh, are you his father? Then you will take him home and bring me back!”

“His father? I do not know what you mean; I am your father—”

“Oh, hurry up!—I am tired, I can bear no more. Take me to the king my father, and he will make you rich as you have never dreamed. Believe me, man! I am indeed the Prince of Wales!”

The man looked down at the boy, then shook his head and muttered—

“He has gone mad!”—then said with a coarse laugh, “I and Mother will soon find where the soft places in your bones are!”

With this he dragged the struggling prince to a dark dirty house.

4

Tom Canty, left alone in the prince’s cabinet, made good use of his opportunity. He walked up to the great mirror, admiring his fine clothes; then walked around, imitating the prince, observing results in the glass. Tom played with a jewelled dagger; he tried each of the great chairs, and thought how proud he would be if the Offal Court boys could see him in this palace. He wondered if they would believe the marvellous tale he would tell them when he got home.

At the end of half an hour it suddenly occurred to him that the prince was gone a long time; then he began to feel lonely; stopped playing with the pretty things about him; he grew uneasy. What if someone should come, and catch him in the prince’s clothes, and the prince will not be there to explain? His fear rose higher and higher; and he decided to look for the prince, and opened the door. Six gentlemen-servants and two young pages, dressed like butterflies, sprang to their feet and bowed low before him. He quickly closed the door, and said—

“Oh, they mock at me! They will go and tell. Oh! why did I come here?”

He walked up and down the room, filled with fear. Presently the door opened, and a page said—

“Lady Jane Grey.”

A sweet young girl, richly dressed, came toward him. But she stopped suddenly, and said—

“Oh, what is wrong with you, my lord?”

Tom was hardly able to speak—

“I am no lord, but only poor Tom Canty of Offal Court. Please let me see the prince, and he will give me back my rags, and let me go home. Oh, save me!”

By this time the boy was on his knees. The young girl seemed horror-stricken. She cried out—

“O my lord, on your knees?—and to me!” Then she left the room; and Tom murmured in despair—

“There is no help, there is no hope.”

While he waited there horror-stricken, dreadful news flew through the palace. The whisper flew from servant to servant, from lord to lady, down all the long corridors, “The prince has gone mad, the prince has gone mad!” Soon every hall had groups of lords and ladies and other groups of servants talking in whispers. Presently a splendid official marched by these groups, and made a proclamation—

“IN THE NAME OF THE KING!

Let nobody listen to this false and foolish matter, upon pain of death, nor discuss the same, nor carry it abroad. In the name of the King!”

And whispering stopped suddenly.

Soon Tom was slowly walking past the low-bowing groups, looking at his strange surroundings with bewildered eyes. Great nobles walked on each side of him. Behind him followed the court-physicians and some servants.

Presently Tom found himself in a splendid apartment. Around him stood those who had come with him. Before him, sat a very large and very fat man, with a wide stern face. His large head was very grey. His clothes were rich, but old and a little worn. One of his swollen legs lay on a pillow, and was bandaged. There was silence now. This stern-faced invalid was the dreadful Henry VIII. He said—and his face grew gentle as he began to speak—

“How are you, my lord Edward? Have you decided to play a trick on me, the King your father, who loves you?”

Poor Tom was listening to this speech; but when he heard the words ‘me, the King’, his face paled, and he dropped on his knees. He exclaimed—

“Are you the King?”

The King looked bewildered at the boy before him. Then he said—

“Alas, I did not believe the rumour; but I fear it is true.” He said in a gentle voice, “Come to your father, child, you are not well.” Tom approached the King of England, humble and trembling. The King took the frightened face between his hands, then pressed the boy’s head to his breast. Presently he said—

“Do you not know your father, child? Do not break my old heart; say you know me.”

“Yes, you are the King!”

“True, true, do not tremble so. Everyone loves you here. You will not say again that you are not the prince?”

“Please believe me, I told the truth, my lord; for I am a pauper, and it is by accident that I am here! I may go now?”

“Go? Yes, if you wish to. Where do you wish to go?”

Tom answered humbly—

“To the place where my mother and my sisters are, and is home to me; I am not used to this splendid palace—oh, please, sir, let me go!”

The King was silent and thoughtful a while, and his face showed uneasiness. Presently he said, with hope in his voice—

“Perhaps he is mad on this one thing. We will make a test.”

Then he asked Tom a question in Latin, and Tom answered him slowly in the same language. The lords and doctors showed their satisfaction. The King said—

“It shows that his mind is diseased, but not gone. What would you say, sir?”

The court physician bowed low and said—“I believe, sir, that you are right.”

The King looked pleased and continued—“Now we will try him further.”

He put a question to Tom in French. Tom stood silent a moment, then said—

“I do not know this language, your Majesty.” The King looked unhappy and said—

“Come here, child; rest your poor head on your father’s breast. You’ll soon be well. Don’t fear. You’ll soon be well.” Then he turned to the lords: his gentle manner changed. He said furiously—

“Listen you all! My son is mad; but it is not for long. Over-study has done this. Away with his books and teachers! Let him play sports, so that his health comes again.” He went on with energy, “He is mad; but he is my son, and England’s heir; and he will be King! And whoever speaks of his illness will be hanged! … Give me to drink: this sorrow takes my strength… Support me. Mad, is he? Yet he is he Prince of Wales!”

One of the nobles knelt to the king, and said—

“Your majesty, the Hereditary Great Marshal of England is imprisoned in the Tower. He cannot—”

“Quiet! Do not speak his name. Is this man to live forever? Is the prince to not become king, because, at the moment, the realm lacks an Earl Marshal to honour him? No!”

Lord Hertford said—

“The King’s will is law;” and, rising, returned to his former place.

The fury had left the old King’s face, and he said—

“Kiss me, my prince. There … what are you afraid of? Am I not your loving father?”

“You are, my lord: that in truth I know. But—but—it pains me to think that he has to die, and—”

“Ah, it’s like you! I know your heart is still the same, even though your mind is not, for you always had a gentle spirit. But this duke stands between you and your right: I will have another in his stead. Do not trouble your poor head with this matter. Kiss me once again, and go; I need rest. Go with your uncle Hertford and your people, and come again when I feel better.”

Tom left heavy-hearted, for the last sentence was a death-blow to his hopes of being set free.