‘The King, my brother, the Dauphin, the Duke of Brittany—’ began Eleanor.
‘Alas! the poor boy would never have ventured it but for encouragement,’ sighed Barbe. ‘Treacherous I say it must be!’
‘I knew there was treachery, ‘exclaimed Madame de Ste. Petronelle, ‘so soon as I found which way our faces were turned.’
‘But who could or would betray us?’ demanded Eleanor.
‘You need not ask that, when your escort was led by Andrew Hall,’ returned the elder lady. ‘Poor young George of the Red Peel had only just told me so, when the caitiffs fell on him, and he came to his bloody death.’
‘Hall! Then I marvel not,’ said Eleanor, in a low, awe-struck voice. ‘My brother the Dauphin could not have known.’
The old Scotswoman refrained from uttering her belief that he knew only too well, but by the time all this had been said Barbe was obliged to leave them, having arranged for the night that Eleanor should sleep in the big bed beside her sister, and their lady across it at their feet—a not uncommon arrangement in those days.
Sleep, however, in spite of weariness, was only to be had in snatches, for poor Jean was in much pain, and very feverish, besides being greatly terrified at their situation, and full of grief and self-reproach for the poor young Master of Angus, never dozing off for a moment without fancying she saw him dying and upbraiding her, and for the most part tossing in a restless misery that required the attendance of one or both. She had never known ailment before, and was thus all the more wretched and impatient, alarming and distressing Eleanor extremely, though Madame de Ste. Petronelle declared it was only a matter of course, and that the lassie would soon be well.
‘Ah, Madame, our comforter and helper,’ said Elleen.
‘Call me no French names, dearies. Call me the Leddy Lindsay or Dame Elspeth, as I should be at home. We be all Scots here, in one sore stour. If I could win a word to my son, Ritchie, he would soon have us out of this place.’