“His lineage, true,” replied Henry; “but look you, my Lord, my child, the light of mine eyes, may not go from me without being assured that it is to one who will, I say, not equal her in birth, but will be a faithful and loving lord to her.”
“Hath he sought her?” asked the King.
“Even so, my liege. The maid is scarce sixteen; I thought to have kept her longer; but so it was—old Winny, her mother’s old nurse, fell sick and died in the winter; and the Dominican, who came to shrive her, must needs craze the poor fool with threats that she did a deadly sin in bringing my sweet wife and me together; and for all the Grand Prior, who, monk as he is, has a soldier’s sense, could say of the love that conquered death, nothing would serve the poor woman to die in peace till my Bessee had vowed to make a six weeks’ station at her patroness’s well, where we were wedded, and pray for her soul and her blessed mother’s. So there we journeyed for our summer roaming; and all had been well, had you not come down on us with all the idle danglers of the court to gaze and rhyme and tilt about the first fair face they saw. Even then so discreet was the girl that no more had befallen, but as ill-luck would have it, my old Evesham keepsake,” touching his side, “burst forth again one evening, and left me so spent, that Bessee sent the boy to get me a draught of wine. The boy—mountebank as he is—lost her groat, and played truant; and she, poor wench, got into such fear for me that she went herself, and fell in with a sort of insolent masterful rogues, from whom this young knight saved her. I took her home safe enough after that, and thought to be rid of the knaves when they saw my wallet; and so truly I am, all save this lad!”
“O father! it is true love!” whispered Joan.
“What hast to do with true love, popinjay? And so John of Dunster came undaunted to the breach, did he, Henry?”
“Not a whit dismayed he! Now either that is making light of his honour, or ’tis an honour higher than most lads understand. Cousin, I would have the child be loved as her father and mother loved! And methinks she affects this blade. The child hath been less like my merry lark since we met him. A plague on the springalds! But you know him. Has he your good word?”
“John of Dunster?” said the King. “Henry, didst thou not know for whose sake I had loved and proved him? He was Richard’s pupil. I was forced to take the child with me, for old Sir Reginald had been unruly enough, and I thought would be the less troublesome to my father were his son in my keeping. But I half repented when I saw what a small urchin it was, to be cast about among grooms and pages! But Richard aided the little uncouth varlet, nursed him when sick, guarded him when well, trained him to be loyal and steadfast. The little fellow came bravely to my aid in my grapple with the traitor before Acre; and when the blow had fallen on Richard, the boy’s grief was such that I loved him ever after. And of late I have had no truer trustier warrior. I warrant me he was too shy to tell thee that I knighted him last year in the midst of some of the best feats of arms I ever beheld against the Welsh! Whatever John de Mohun saith is sooth, and I would rather mate my daughter with him than with many a man of fairer speech.”
“Then shall he have my pretty Bessee!” said the beggar, lingering over the words. “But one boon I would further ask, cousin; that thou breathe no word to him of my having sought thee.”
The young Lord of Dunster had not been noted for choiceness of apparel; but when he repaired to the trysting-tree, none could have found fault with the folds of his long crimson tunic, worked with the black and gold colours of his family, nor with the sit of the broad belt that sustained his sword, assuredly none with his beautiful sleek black charger.
But under the tree stood not the blind beggar, but the beggar’s boy.