“I have, and I have not,” said I. “There was that in his face which I knew full well, yet cannot I bethink me of his name.”
“It was not Master Madefray, trow?”
“In no wise: a higher man than he, and of fairer hair.”
“Not a priest neither?”
“Nay, certes.”
“Leave not to sup your soup, Dame Cicely, nor show no astonishment, I pray, while I ask yet a question. Was it—Sir Roger the Mortimer of Ludlow?”
For all Dame Joan’s warnful words, I nigh dropped my spoon, and I never knew how the rest of the soup tasted.
“Wala wa!” said I, under my breath, “but I do believe it was he.”
“I saw him,” saith she, quietly. “And take my word for it, friend—that man cometh for no good.”
“Marry!” cried I in some heat, “how dare he come nigh the Queen at all? he, a banished man! Without, soothly, he came humbly to entreat her intercession with the King for his pardon. But e’en then, he might far more meetly have sent his petition by some other. Verily, I marvel she would see him!”