“Sixteen, come Candlemas.”
“The very age of Dickon here,” cried my mother. “Cedric, lad, does thy mother live?”
“Nay, my lady,” quoth he, sadly, “two years agone we buried her.”
WHILE I SPOKE MY MOTHER HAD GROWN PALE AS DEATH
“Then thou shalt come to live at Mountjoy,” she went on with bonny, flushing cheeks and bright and eager eyes. “Hast thou learned thy letters? Canst thou read prayer book or ballad?”
“Nay, my lady,” he said again, with a blush. “We of the forest know little of letters.”
“Then I will teach thee. Thou’rt a mannered lad and well spoken for one who knows not court or town. Thou shalt be a clerk an thou wishest.”
“No clerk shall he be,” I cried. “Saving thy pardon, good Mother, he shall be my squire-at-arms. A man that fights as he shall be no shaven-pate. He shall teach me his craft with the bow, and of him I will make a bonny swordsman. What say’st thou, Father? Have I not the right of it?”
My father did smile somewhat to see me so hot and eager in my plans. And truly, I bethought me then that this lad whom I was choosing for my comrade-in-arms was one whom but three hours gone I had never seen, and that now I knew naught of him save that he fought well and truly and with a wondrous skill of his weapon. Yet, looking at his clear, blue eyes and his way of holding up his head as a freeman of England, I repented me not of my words.