“What, my brother Leonard?” said she. “Nay, sweet heart; he hath been wed these six years.”
“Is it over, or to come?”
“Over, this New Year, or should be,” answered Beatrice. “Dost thou lack help? what thinkest of my Lady of Suffolk her own self?” (The date is fictitious. It was probably about Christmas, 1552.)
“Beatrice, dear heart!” cried Isoult. “Thou meanest not that?”
“Ay, but I do,” said she, laughing. “And now, whom hath her Grace wedded?”
“I would guess,” said Isoult, “some gentleman of great riches and very high degree.”
“Well, as to riches,” she answered, “I fancy he hath hitherto earned every penny he hath spent; and in respect of degree, hath been used to the holding of his mistress’ stirrup. Canst thou guess now?”
“Mr Bertie!” cried Isoult, in amazement. “Surely no!”
“Surely so,” answered Beatrice, again laughing. “Her Grace of Suffolk and Mr Bertie be now man and wife. And for my poor opinion, methinks she hath chosen well for her own comfort.”
“I am rarely glad to hear it,” Isoult answered; “so think I likewise.”