This afternoon is no different. With every hour that passes, his moments of rage are getting more intense.The stink of wet wool and greasy leather that these men give off turns his stomach. The figures of the forty-odd shire knights and coming up to a hundred burgesses swim and sway before him, and none of them with the grace to acknowledge their humbleness and the Duke's God-given might. Who do they think they are?Ever since Chancellor Knyvett read out the Crown's first request for money, and the Commons, with the low cowardice that must be expected of such men, first drew in barons and bishops to hide behind, then pushed forward one of their number to say no on behalf of them all, and then to smear the Duke's real or imagined placemen, starting with Alice Perrers, of imaginary crimes, his rage has simmered and bubbled. Perhaps these people have been stealing; on balance, it's even probable. But that's just what people like that do, because they're merchants, officials; sneaky paper people.
