"Peter Brome, Sire."

"Ah! There was a certain Sir Peter Brome who fell at Bosworth Field--not
fighting for me," and he smiled. "Did you know him perchance?"

"He was my father, Sire, and I saw him slain--aye, and slew the slayer."

"Well can I believe it," answered Henry, considering him. "But how comes
it that Peter Brome's son, who wears that battle scar across his face,
is clad in merchant's woollen?"

"Sire," said Peter coolly, "my father sold his lands, lent his all to
the Crown, and I have never rendered the account. Therefore I must live
as I can."

The king laughed outright as he replied:

"I like you, Peter Brome, though doubtless you hate me."

"Not so, Sire. While Richard lived I fought for Richard. Richard is
gone; and, if need be, I would fight for Henry, who am an Englishman,
and serve England's king."

"Well said, and I may have need of you yet, nor do I bear you any
grudge. But, I forgot, is it thus that you would fight for me, by
causing riot in my streets, and bringing me into trouble with my good
friends the Spaniards?"

"Sire, you know the story."