“Nay, holy father, her thoughts are otherwhere,” Sir John answered. “She will sit an hour at a time, the needle in her hand and her soul a hundred leagues from Cosford House. Ever since the Prince’s battle—”
“Good father, I beg you—”
“Nay, Mary, none can hear me, save your own confessor, Father Matthew. Ever since the Prince’s battle, I say, when we heard that young Nigel had won such honor she is brain-wode, and sits ever—well, even as you see her now.”
An intent look had come into Mary’s eyes; her gaze was fixed upon the dark rain-splashed window. It was a face carved from ivory, white-lipped and rigid, on which the old priest looked.
“What is it, my daughter? What do you see?”
“I see nothing, father.”
“What is it then that disturbs you?”
“I hear, father.”
“What do you hear?”
“There are horsemen on the road.”