“May it please you, Madam,” said I, “Sister Denise is thus distressed because she, being a De La Pole, is set to scrubbing and such like menial work.”
“Oh, is she, indeed?” laughed my Lady. “Sister, do you know what Mother Annora is?”
Sister Denise could only shake her head.
“Her mother was grand-daughter to King Edward of Westminster,” said my Lady. “If we three were in the world, I should be scantly fit to bear her train and you would be little better than her washerwoman. But I never heard her grumble to scour the corridor and she has done it more times than ever you thought about it. Foolish child, to suppose there was any degradation in honest work! Was not our blessed Lord Himself a carpenter? I warrant the holy Virgin kept her boards clean, and did not say she was too good to scrub. No woman alive is too good to do her duty.”
Sister Denise brake forth into fresh sobs.
“A wa—wa—washerwoman! To be called a washerwoman! (Note 3.) Me, kinswoman of Sir Michael de La Pole, and Sir Richard to boot—a washerwo—woman!”
“Don’t be a goose!” said my Lady. “De La Pole, indeed! who be these De La Poles? Why, no more than merchants of Lombard Street, selling towelling at fivepence the ell, and coverchiefs of Cambray (Note 4) at seven shillings the piece. Truly a goodly pedigree to boast of thus loudly!”
“But, Madam!” cries Sister Denise—her tears, methinks, burned up by her vexation—“bethink you, Sir Michael my cousin is a knight, and his wife the Lady Katherine heiress of Wingfield, and the Lady Katherine his mother ’longeth to the knights De Norwich. And look you, his sister is my Lady Scrope, and his cousin wedded the heir of the Lord Cobham of Kent.”
“Nay, tarry not there,” said my Lady; “do go a bit further while thou art about it. Was not my Lady Joan Cobham’s mother daughter to my Lady of Devon, whose mother was daughter unto King Edward of Westminster—so thou art akin to the King himself? I cry thee mercy, my Lady Princess, that I set thee to scrub boards.—Sister Annora, prithee, let this princely damsel go to school for a bit—she’s short of heraldry. The heiress of Wingfield, the Lady Katherine, forsooth! and the daughter of Sir John de Norwich a ‘Lady’ at all! Why, child, we only call the King’s kinswomen the Lord and Lady. As to thy cousin Sir Michael, he is a woolmonger and lindraper (linen draper. The en is a corruption) that the King thought fit to advance, because it pleased him, and maybe he had parts (talents) of some sort. Sure thou hast no need to stick up thy back o’ that count! To-morrow, Sister Denise, thou wilt please to clean the fire-dogs, and carry forth the ashes to the lye-heap.—Come, Sister Annora; I lack you elsewhere.”
Poor little Denise broke into bitterer tears than ever; but I could not stay to comfort her, for I had to follow my Lady.