“Did Sir Geoffrey make for her her excuse?”
My face, as I could feel, grew burning red as I made answer:
“Nay, he said no word of her.”
Then Lady Mountjoy turned to my father, who had been closely listening:
“It seems, my lord, that we shall not soon ride toward Teramore.”
My father sadly shook his head, and gazed at the board before him. He had been glad at heart at the thought of the healed breach between the two houses; and now it seemed that all such thoughts were vain.
“Mayhap Lady Carleton will ride over with Sir Geoffrey when next week he comes to Mountjoy as he promised,” I offered.
My father again shook his head.
“Mayhap she will, Dickon. If so be, she shall have the right hand of welcome; but much I misdoubt her coming to Mountjoy. When all is said, ’tis but natural she cannot bring herself to call us friends. It was we of Mountjoy that did to death her husband and her eldest son; and though we know well, and have maintained it by oath and by arms, that ’twas in fair battle, on our part at least, and that they brought their deaths upon themselves, yet perhaps ’tis too much to expect her to credit our words and deeds that give the lie to those of her own house. Nay, I see it now. She will never be a friend of Mountjoy.”
He sighed deeply and turned again to his carving. None of us had more words; and it seemed that a cold fog, like those that come from the Western Sea in springtime, had settled on our spirits.