The next morning rose brilliantly clear, and cruelly cold. There was a keen frost, and a keener east wind: but it was de rigueur that the bride must wear no covering on her head except a coronal of gems. She bore herself royally, with no sign of the outward sufferings which were consuming her life, any more than of the inward anguish which was gnawing at her heart. The marriage took place at Greenwich Palace, after a freezing voyage: and the bride was given away by her royal uncle. All the chamberers of course were present, and so were the people of England, represented by as many as could squeeze into the Palace chapel. Men and women of all ranks were there: but only two pairs of eyes noticed one man, muffled in a thick cloak as if he felt the cold, who stood back in the furthest corner. Agnes thought she could guess who he was; and she contrived to leave the chapel by the door close to which he stood. As she passed him in the crush, the Duke slipped a scrap of paper into her hand, with a significant look. Agnes hid it hastily, for it was not for a long time that she dared to examine it. There was a grand banquet to be gone through, and a series of dances and games in the Palace hall; and hours were over before Agnes could without notice slip away from the dancers, and in the recess of a window where no eyes saw her, unfold the Duke's missive.
"I would fain speak with you," it ran. "Dare you come alone to the waterside, without the little postern, as soon as the dark falleth? Risk nothing: but if you can come, you shall find me there."
It was growing dusk already. Agnes listened for a moment to the sounds of mirth which came surging from the hall. No one would miss her there. She tied a hood over her head, and ran down to the little postern. True to his appointment, the Duke was walking slowly up and down, muffled in his cloak.
"May Christ bless you, my good damsel!" he said warmly, as Agnes made her appearance. "I do heartily trust that no ill shall hap to you for this grace. Now tell me quickly, for I would not keep you to your harm—what manner of man is this Master Grey? Since he were babe have I never seen him. What is in him?—what hath he done?"
Ah, Agnes knew of one thing he had done, which so far as in her lay must be kept from the ears of Anne's father for ever. Could she look up into those mournful, longing eyes, and tell him that the man into whose hands his one darling had fallen was one of the murderers of Prince Edward? She cast her eyes downwards, and played nervously with her chatelaine.
"Methinks, my gracious Lord, not much hath been yet known of the young gentleman."
"Perchance, not much," answered the Duke quietly: "yet something, my gentle maid, which you would fain not tell me."
Agnes took refuge in the smaller of the two evil actions of which she knew Grey to be guilty. The smaller—yet showing, as straws show how the wind blows, that he was capable of the greater.
"I have seen him not o'er good to his dog," said she. "But I know not much of his conditions."
The Duke sighed. "Doth my little maid love him?" he asked. "Was she willing to wed with him?"