“Is it sooth, Master Ridley? Is death beforehand with me?”
“My old lady is in extremis, sir,” replied Ridley. “Poor soul, she hath never spoken since she heard of my lord’s death and his son’s.”
“The younger lad? Lives here?” demanded Copeland. “Is it as I have heard?”
“Aye, sir. The child passed away on the Eve of St. Luke. I have my lady’s orders,” he added reluctantly, “to open the castle to you, as of right.”
“It is well,” returned Sir Leonard. Then, turning round to the twenty men who followed him, he said, “Men-at-arms, as you saw and heard, there is death here. Draw up here in silence. This good esquire will see that you have food and fodder for the horses. Kemp, Hardcastle,” to his squires, “see that all is done with honour and respect as to the lady of the castle and mine. Aught unseemly shall be punished.”
Wherewith he dismounted, and entered the narrow little court, looking about him with a keen, critical, soldierly eye, but speaking with low, grave tones.
“I may not tarry,” he said to Ridley, “but this place, since it falls to me and mine, must be held for the King and Queen.”
“My lady bows to your will, sir,” returned Ridley.
Copeland continued to survey the walls and very antiquated defences, observing that there could have been few alarms there. This lasted till the rites in the sick-room were ended, and the priest came forth.
“Sir,” he said to Copeland, “you will pardon the young lady. Her mother is in articulo mortis, and she cannot leave her.”