“Nay, mistress, I would it had been.”
“Thou hast been in trouble,” she said, leaning on the baluster above him. “Or did ill men set on thee?”
“That’s the nearest guess,” said Stephen. “’Twas that tall father of mine aunt’s, the fellow that came here for armour, and bought poor Master Michael’s sword.”
“And sliced the apple on thine hand. Ay?”
“He would have me for one of his Badgers.”
“Thee! Stephen!” It was a cry of pain as well as horror.
“Yea, mistress; and when I refused, the fellow dealt me a blow, and laid me down senseless, to bear me off willy nilly, but that good old Lucas Hansen brought mine uncle to mine aid—”
Dennet clasped her hands. “O Stephen, Stephen! Now I know how good the Lord is. Wot ye, I asked of Tibble to take me daily to St. Faith’s to crave of good St. Julian to have you all in his keeping, and saith he on the way, ‘Methinks, mistress, our dear Lord would hear you if you spake to Him direct, with no go-between.’ I did as he bade me, Stephen, I went to the high Altar, and prayed there, and Tibble went with me, and lo, now, He hath brought you back safe. We will have a mass of thanksgiving on the very morn.”
Stephen’s heart could not but bound, for it was plain enough for whom the chief force of these prayers had been offered.
“Sweet mistress,” he said, “they have availed me indeed. Certes, they warded me in the time of sore trial and temptation.”