Simon and I arrived in London, dressed far less richly than the city folk, with no money to our names. We endured endless sneers and contempt. When we sought an audience at the High Court, we were beaten with rods and thrown out, the guards telling us to drop the matter if we wanted to live.
That was when we learned that Father had truly offended someone powerful—a man beyond our reach.
Perhaps word of our presence had spread because after we left the courthouse, soldiers surrounded us, armed with sketches of our faces. They accused us of stealing from the royal treasury and tried to arrest us.
We stood there in the middle of the crowded street, dressed in nothing but thin, ragged clothes, with no place to hide anything, yet the crowd simply watched, indifferent, some even criticizing our appearance.
The soldiers seized us, determined to drag us away, not even giving us a chance to explain ourselves.
It was then that the old servant appeared.
He declared Simon to be the Duke's heir and ordered the soldiers to release us.
The irony of it—it took just one word from a servant, a man of lower station than us, and they let us go.