“Only a talking?” saith Dame Joan, and laughed. “You be happy woman, in good sooth, if your worsest trouble be a comb that hath his teeth split.”
“Do but try him!” quoth Dame Elizabeth, and snorked (twisted, contorted) up her mouth, as the comb that instant moment came to a spot where her hair was louked (fastened) together. “Bless the comb!” saith she, and I guess she meant it but little. “Wala wa! Dame Joan, think you ’tis matter for laughter?”
“More like than greeting,” (weeping), she made answer.
“Verily,” said I, “but I see much worser matter for tears than your comb, Dame Elizabeth. Either the Queen is sore ill-usen of her brother, that such ill companions should be allowed near her, or else—”
Well for me, my lace snapped at that moment, and I ended not the sentence. When I was laid down beside Dame Joan, it came to me like a flash of lightning—“Or else—what?” And at that minute Dame Joan turned her on the pillows, and set her lips to mine ear.
“Dame Cicely,” quoth she, “mine heart misdoubts me it is the ‘or else.’ Pray you, govern your tongue, and use your eyes in time to come. Trust not her in the red bed too much, and her in the green-hung chamber not at all.”
The first was Dame Elizabeth, and the last Dame Isabel de Lapyoun, that lay in a chamber hung with green, with Dame Tiffany. I was secure she meant not the other, but to make certain I whispered the name, and she saith, “She.”
I reckoned it not ill counsel, for mine own thoughts assented thereto, in especial as touched Dame Isabel.
After that day wherein Sir Roger de Mortimer was in the Queen’s cabinet, I trow I kept mine eyes open.
For a few days he came and went: but scarce more than a sennight had passed ere I learned that he had come to dwell in Paris all out; and but little more time was spent when one even, Dame Isabel de Lapyoun came into our chamber as we were about to hie us abed, and saith she, speaking to none in especial, but to all—