‘If it were the Duchess of York now!’ he said. ‘She is far bonnier and even prouder, gin that be what tak’s your fancy! And as to our Jeanie, they are all cockering her up till she’ll no be content with a king. I doot me if the Paip himself wad be good enough for her!’
It was true that the brilliant and lively Lady Joanna was in high favour with the princely gallants of the cavalcade. The only member of the party at all equal to her in beauty was the Duchess of York, who travelled in a whirlicote with her younger children and her ladies, and at the halting-places never relaxed the stiff dignity with which she treated every one. Eleanor did indeed accompany her sister, but she had not Jean’s quick power of repartee, and she often answered at haphazard, and was not understood when she did reply; nor had she Jean’s beauty, so that in the opinion of most of the young nobles she was but a raw, almost dumb, Scotswoman, and was left to herself as much as courtesy permitted, except by the young King of the Isle of Wight, a gentle, poetical personage, in somewhat delicate health, with tastes that made him the chosen companion of the scholarly King Henry. He could repeat a great deal of Chaucer’s poetry by heart, the chief way in which people could as yet enjoy books, and there was an interchange between them of “Blind Harry” and of the “Canterbury Tales”, as they rode side by side, sometimes making their companions laugh, and wonder that the youthful queen was not jealous. Dame Lilias found her congenial companion in the Countess Alice of Salisbury, who could talk with her of that golden age of the two kings, Henry and James, of her brother Malcolm, and of Esclairmonde de Luxembourg, now Sister Clare, whom they hoped soon to see in the sisterhood of St. Katharine’s.
‘Hers hath been the happy course, the blessed dedication,’ said Countess Alice.
‘We have both been blessed too, thanks to the saints,’ returned Lilias.
‘That is indeed sooth,’ replied the other lady. ‘My lord hath ever been most good to me, and I have had joy of my sons. Yet there is much that my mind forbodes and shrinks back from in dread, as I watch my son Richard’s overmastering spirit.’
‘The Cardinal and the Duke of Gloucester have long been at strife, as we heard,’ said Lady Drummond, ‘but sure that will be appeased now that the Cardinal is an old man and your King come to years of discretion.’
‘The King is a sweet youth, a very saint already,’ replied the Countess, ‘but I misdoubt whether he have the stout heart and strong hand of his father, and he is set on peace.’
‘Peace is to be followed,’ said Lilias, amazed at the tone in which her friend mentioned it.
‘Peace at home! Ay, but peace at home is only to be had by war abroad. Peace abroad without honour only leaves these fiery spirits to fume, and fly at one another’s throats, or at those who wrought it. My mind misgives me, mine old friend, lest wrangling lead to blows. I had rather see my Richard spurring against the French than against his cousins of Somerset, and while they advance themselves and claim to be nearer in blood to the King than our good host of York, so long will there be cause of bitterness.’
‘Our kindly host seems to wish evil to no man.’