“Dear kinsman Marmaduke, my brother esteems you for your father’s sake. And, sooth to say, the Neviles are not so numerous in court as they were. Business and state matters have made me see too seldom those whom I would most affect. Wilt thou ride with me to the More Park? I would present thee to my brother the archbishop.”
“If the king would graciously hold me excused.”
“The king, sir! when I—I forgot,” said Montagu, checking himself—“oh, as to that, the king stirs not out to-day! He hath with him a score of tailors and armourers in high council on the coming festivities. I will warrant thy release; and here comes Hastings, who shall confirm it.”
“Fair my lord!”—as at that moment Hastings emerged from the little postern that gave egress from the apartments occupied by the alchemist of the Duchess of Bedford—“wilt thou be pleased, in thy capacity of chamberlain, to sanction my cousin in a day’s absence? I would confer with him on family matters.”
“Certes, a small favour to so deserving a youth. I will see to his deputy.”
“A word with you, Hastings,” said Montagu, thoughtfully, and he drew aside his fellow courtier: “what thinkest thou of this Burgundy bastard’s visit?”
“That it has given a peacock’s strut to the popinjay Anthony Woodville.”
“Would that were all!” returned Montagu. “But the very moment that Warwick is negotiating with Louis of France, this interchange of courtesies with Louis’s deadly foe, the Count of Charolois, is out of season.”
“Nay, take it not so gravely,—a mere pastime.”
“Hastings, thou knowest better. But thou art no friend of my great brother.”