Stephen stood softly whistling for a moment. He might work the two things together—might at least pay a visit to Derette, and learn from her how far it was safe to go on. He felt that Anania was the chief danger; Osbert would placidly accept as much or as little as he chose to tell, and Isel, if she asked questions, might be easily turned aside from the path. Could he be sure that Anania was out of the way, he thought he would not hesitate to go himself, though he no longer dared to contemplate taking Ermine.
“Well, I might, mayhap, be going in that direction afore long,—I can’t just say till I see how things shape themselves. If I can, I’ll let you know in a few days.”
“All right! I’m in no hurry to a week or two.”
Stephen meditated on the subject in the intervals of superintendence of his oven, and serving out wassel and cocket, with the result that when evening came, he was almost determined to go, if Ermine found no good reasons to the contrary. He consulted her when he went home, for she was not at the shop that day. She looked grave at first, but her confidence in Stephen’s discretion was great, and she made no serious objection. No sooner, however, did the children hear of such a possibility as their father’s visiting the country, than they all, down to three-year-old Edild, sent in petitions to be allowed to accompany him.
“Couldn’t be thought of!” was Stephen’s decided though good-tempered answer: and the petitioners succumbed with a look of disappointment.
“I might perchance have taken Gerard,” Stephen allowed to his wife, out of the boy’s hearing: “but to tell truth, I’m afraid of Anania’s hearing his name—though, as like as not, she’ll question me on the names of all the children, and who they were called after, and why we selected them, and if each were your choice or mine.”
“Better not, I think,” said Ermine, with a smile. “I almost wish I could be hidden behind a curtain, to hear your talk with her.”
Stephen laughed. “Well, I won’t deny that I rather enjoy putting spokes in her wheels,” said he.
The next morning he told Odinel to make up his goods, and he would carry them to Oxford on the following Monday.
Odinel’s parcel proved neither bulky nor heavy. Instead of requiring a sumpter-mule to carry it, it could readily be strapped at the back of Stephen’s saddle, while the still smaller package of his own necessaries went in front. He set out about four o’clock on a spring morning, joining himself for the sake of safety to the convoy of travellers who started from the Black Bull in the Poultry, and arrived at the East Gate of Oxford before dark, on the Tuesday evening. His first care was to commit Odinel’s goods to the safe care of mine host of the Blue Boar (Note 4) in Fish Street, as had been arranged. Here he supped on fried fish, rye bread, and cheese; and having shared the “grace-cup” of a fellow-traveller, set off for Saint John’s anchorhold. A young woman in semi-conventual dress left the door just as he came up. Stephen doffed his cap as he asked her—“I pray you, are you the maid of the Lady Derette?”