‘Sixty thousand, my liege,’ composedly answered Dame Alice. ‘My husband hath his whims, and I pray your Grace not to hinder what he hath so long been preparing.’
‘Yea, Sir,’ added Whittington, earnestly. ‘You wot that God hath prospered us richly. We have no child, and our nephews are well endowed. How, then, can our goods belong to any save God, our king, and the poor?’
Henry drew one hand over his eyes, and with the other wrung that of Whittington. ‘Had ever king such a subject?’ he murmured.
‘Had ever subject such a king?’ was Whittington’s return.
‘Thou hast conquered, Whittington,’ said the King, presently looking up with a sunny smile. ‘To send me over the seas a free man, beholden to you in heart though not by purse, is, as I well believe, worth all that sum to thy loyal heart. Thou art setting me far on my way to Jerusalem, my dear friend! Thank him, Kate—he hath done much for thine husband!’
Catherine looked amiable, and held out a white hand to be kissed, aware that the King was pleased, though hardly understanding why he should be glad that an odour of singed parchment should overpower the gums and cinnamon. This was soon remedied by the fresh handful of spices that were cast into the flame, and the banquet began, magnificent with peacocks, cranes, and swans in full plumage; the tusky bear crunched his apple, deer’s antlers adorned the haunch, the royal sturgeon floated in wine, fountains of perfumed waters sprang up from shells, towers of pastry and of jelly presented the endless allegorical devices of mediæval fancy, and, pre-eminent over all, a figure of the cat, with emerald eyes, fulfilled, as Henry said, the proverb, ‘A cat might look at a king;’ and truly the cat and her master had earned the right; therefore his first toast was, ‘To the Cat!’
Each guest found at his or her place a beautiful fragrant pair of gloves, in Spanish leather, on the back of which was once more embroidered, in all her tabby charms, the cat’s face. Therewith began a lengthy meal; and Malcolm Stewart rejoiced at finding himself seated next to the Lady Esclairmonde, but he grudged her attention to her companion, a slender, dark, thoughtful representative of the Goldsmiths’ Company, to whom she talked with courtesy such as Malcolm had scorned to show his city dame.
‘Who,’ said Esclairmonde, presently, ‘was a dame in a religious garb whom I marked near the door here? She hooked like one of the Béguines of my own country.’
‘We have no such order here, lady,’ said the goldsmiths, puzzled.
‘Hey, Master Price,’ cried Mistress Bolt, speaking across Malcolm, ‘I can tell the lady who it was. ’Twas good Sister Avice Rodney, to whom the Lady Mayoress promised some of these curious cooling drinks for the poor shipwright who hath well-nigh cloven off his own foot with his axe.’