"I tell thee, Anne, I will not wed him—not if he drag me by force to the altar! Verily, it is a pretty case. Here be I a prisoner in mine own manor, my estates squandered, my tenants oppressed and robbed, my retainers dismissed, save only thee, my poor faithful Anne; and in return I am to wed him to boot! Nay! Rather will I take the veil and give all my goods to the convent of St. Agatha at Torton; though thou knowest I have scant mind to be a nun."
"It wants but five morns now to the bridal day," sighed Anne. "If I mistake not, lady, Sir Mervyn will wed you even against your will and despite the convent."
"Then I will die first! Oh, Roger, Roger!" she added softly to herself, "only a year agone, and I was thy betrothed! It is six months since I had tidings of thee, and whether thou art alive or dead I know not."
"Nay, weep not, sweet lady—weeping cures no ills," said Anne; then, wishful to divert her mistress's sad thoughts, she directed her attention to a commotion which was going on in the courtyard below. "Some stranger hath arrived. If I mistake not, 'tis a huckster come to spread out his wares. An it be your pleasure, I will hie me down and bring you tidings of what he hath."
Receiving a half-hearted consent, she hurried to the great courtyard, where many of the servants and retainers were already gathered to look at the contents of the pedlar's pack. At that period the arrival of a travelling merchant was an event at a remote country house, and even Sir Mervyn himself did not disdain to examine the cloths and buy an ell or two of velvet for a doublet. The pedlar, a white-haired man, much bent, and with a strange hood of foreign fashion drawn over his face, was proclaiming the virtues of his goods in a lusty voice.
"What do ye lack? What do ye lack?" he cried. "I have here hosen, shoon, caps, gloves, girdles, such as ye never might see out of London town. Here be beside cloth of silk and damask fit for the Queen. Is there no worshipful lady of this noble lord before whom I might spread forth my choicer wares?"
"My mistress would gladly have silk for a kirtle, an I may summon her to the courtyard," Anne ventured to whisper to Sir Mervyn.
Receiving a grudging permission, she hurried panting up the stairs with her tidings. Catharine at first would hardly be persuaded to descend from her chamber into the hated presence of Sir Mervyn, and it was finally more to please her maid than herself that she assented.
"Fair apparel is of scant use to one who hath a mind to wed the Church," she said, "but thou shalt have a riband for thyself, Anne, and a silk girdle withal."
No one remarked the swift, eager glance that the pedlar bestowed upon Catharine as she appeared in the doorway, nor how his hand shook as he untied his second pack. With apparent lack of intention he managed skilfully to draw her a few steps away from the rest, under pretence of exhibiting his silks in the best light; then, whispering: "Keep secret! Betray not that you receive this!" he rapidly thrust a small piece of parchment into her hand. Full of surprise, Catharine yet had the presence of mind to utter no exclamation, and to conceal the parchment in the folds of her gown. Hastily completing her purchases, she retired again to her chamber, where, dismissing Anne, she was able to examine the letter in private. It contained but a few lines: