“Lack-a-daisy!” said I, trying to laugh, though I felt somewhat irked (worried, irritated): “I reckon, then, I had best do mine husband’s bidding without more ado.”
“There spake my Sissot,” saith he. “Good dame!”
So here am I, sat at this desk, with a roll of parchment that Jack hath cut in even leches (strips) for to make a book, and an inkhorn of fresh ink, and divers quills—O me! must all this be writ up?
Well, have forth! I shall so content Jack, and if I content not myself, that shall pay me.
It was through being one of Queen Isabel’s gentlewomen that I came to know these things, and, as Jack saith, to live through my story. And I might go a step further back, for I came to that dignity by reason of being daughter unto Dame Alice de Lethegreve, that was of old time nurse to King Edward. So long as I was a young maid, I was one of the Queen’s sub-damsels; but when I wedded my Jack (and a better Jack never did maiden wed) I was preferred to be damsel of the chamber: and in such fashion journeyed I with the Queen to France, and tarried with her all the time she dwelt beyond seas, and came home with her again, and was with her the four years following, until all brake up, and she was appointed to keep house at Rising Castle. So the whole play was played before mine own eyes.
I spake only sooth-fastness when I told Jack I could never love her. How can man love whom he cannot trust? It would have been as easy to put faith in a snake because it had lovesome marks and colouring, as in that fair, fair face—ay, I will not deny that it was marvellous fair—with the gleaming eyes, which now seemed to flash with golden light, and now to look like the dark depths of a stagnant pool. Wonderful eyes they were! I am glad I never trusted them.
Nor did I never trust her voice. It was as marvellous as the eyes. It could be sweet as honey and sharp as a two-edged sword; soft as dove’s down, and hard as an agate stone. Too soft and sweet to be sooth-fast! She meant her words only when they were sword and agate.
And the King—what shall I say of him? In good sooth, I will say nothing, but leave him to unfold himself in the story. I was not the King’s foster-sister in sooth, for I was ten years the younger; and it was Robin, my brother, that claimed kin with him on that hand. But he was ever hendy (amiable, kindly, courteous) to me. God rest his hapless soul!
But where shall my tale begin? Verily, I have no mind to set forth from the creation, as chroniclers are wont. I was not there then, and lived not through that, nor of a long while after. Must I then begin from my creation? aswhasay (as who should say—that is to say), as near it as my remembrance taketh me. Nay, I think not so: for then should I tell much of the reign of King Edward of Westminster (Edward the First), that were right beside the real story. I think I shall take date from the time of the Queen’s first departure to France, which was the year of our Lord God, 1324.
I was a young maid of seventeen years when I entered the Queen’s household,—her own age. But in another sense, I was tenfold the child that she was. Indeed, I marvel if she ever were a child. I rather think she was born grown-up, as the old heathen fabled Minerva to have been. While on waiting, I often used to see and hear things that I did not understand, yet which I could feel were disapproved by something inside me: I suppose it must have been my conscience. And if at those times I looked on my mother’s face, I could often read disapproval in her eyes also. I never loved the long secret discourses there used to be betwixt the Queen and her uncle, my Lord of Lancaster: they always had to me the air of plotting mischief. Nor did I ever love my Lord of Lancaster; there was no simplicity nor courtesy in him. His natural manner (when he let it be seen) was stern and abrupt; but he did very rarely allow it to be seen; it was nearly always some affectation put on. And I hate that, and so doth Jack.