Richard inquired after Lord Marnell. Margery said he was well, and was with the King at Havering-atte-Bower: but talking about him seemed to increase her look of weariness and woe. She turned the subject by inquiring again about her old friends. Cicely and the maids, Richard told her, were well; but old Beaudesert always howled whenever he was asked for Madge; and Lyard would stand switching his tail in the meadow, and looking wistfully at the house for the young mistress whom he must never see again.
“You miss me, then, all?” said Margery, mournfully.
“You will never know how sore,” was Richard’s answer.
Another pause ensued—there seemed some strange constraint between them—and then Richard asked—
“And what tidings take I home, good my Lady? Dame Lovell bade me have a care to ask how you fared, and the child. I grieve to hear from Alice Jordan that he fareth but evil, and for you—”
He smiled the same grave smile.
“Well—well, Master Pynson,” said Margery, quickly. “I fare well. I cannot go where is not Christ, and where He is, howsoever I fare, I must needs fare well. And for the child—come and see him.”
She led the way noiselessly to the adjoining room. Little Geoffrey lay in Alice’s arms in a heavy sleep. His breathing was very quick and short, and his face flushed and fevered. Richard stood looking silently at him for a few minutes, and then returned with Margery to the oaken chamber. She offered him refreshments, but he declined them. He had supped, he said, already; and ere breakfast-time, he looked to be on his way back to the North. Margery wrote a short letter to Dame Lovell, and intrusted it to him; and then she sat by the table, wearily resting her head upon her hand.
“I pray you, good my Lady,” said Richard, suddenly, breaking the spell that seemed to bind them, “what meaneth this bruit (noise, rumour) of heresy that I hear of you?”
Margery looked up with a strange light in her eyes.