“Stale news, good Dame!” answered Sir Thomas, with (as methought) a rather grim smile. “We know something more, I reckon, than you, touching your Lord and Lady. Sir Roger de Mortimer is o’er seas in Normandy, and the Lady Joan at Skipton Castle.”
“At Southampton, you surely mean?” said Master Inge, who stood at the other end of the line whereof I made the midmost link.
The knight laughed out. “Nay, worthy Master Inge, I mean not Southampton, but Skipton. ’Tis true, both begin with an S, and end with a p and a ton; but there is a mile or twain betwixt the places.”
“What should my Lady do at Skipton?” saith Dame Hilda.
“Verily, I conceive not this!” saith Master Inge, knitting his brows. “It was to Southampton my Lady went—at least so she told us.”
“Your Lady told you truth, Master Castellan. She set forth for Southampton, and reached it. But ere a fair wind blew for her voyage, came a somewhat rougher gale in the shape of a command from the King’s Grace to the Sheriff to take her into keeping, and send her into ward at Skipton Castle, whither she set forth a fortnight past. Now, methinks, Master Inge, you are something wiser than you were a minute gone.”
“And our young damsels?” cries Dame Hilda. “Be they also gone to Skipton?”
I felt Kate’s hand close tighter upon mine.
“Soft you, now, good Dame!” saith Sir Thomas—who, or I thought so, took it all as a very good joke. “Your damsels be parted in so many as they be, and sent to separate convents,—one to Shuldham, one to Sempringham, and one to Chicksand—and their brothers be had likewise into ward.”
To my unspeakable amazement, Dame Hilda burst into tears, and catched up Beatrice in her arms. I had never seen her weep in my life: and a most new and strange idea was taking possession of me—did Dame Hilda actually care something for us?