say that she had been professed at twenty years. But I have known her to speak of a sister of hers, who had a very sorrowful story. I have often wished to know what it were, but she will never tell it.”
The next recreation-time found Philippa, as usual, seated by Mother Joan. The blind nun passed her hand softly over Philippa’s dress.
“That is a damask,” (the figured silk made at Damascus) she said. “I used to like damask and baudekyn.”
(Note: Baudekyn or baldekyn was the richest silk stuff then known, and also of oriental manufacture.)
“I never wear baudekyn,” answered Philippa. “I am but a knight’s wife.”
“What is the colour?” the blind woman wished to know.
“Red and black, in stripes,” said Philippa.
“I remember,” said Mother Joan, dreamily, “many years ago, seeing mine aunt, the Lady of Gloucester, at the court of King Edward of Caernarvon, arrayed in a fair baudekyn of rose colour and silver. It was the loveliest stuff I ever saw. And I could see then.”
Her voice fell so mournfully that Philippa tried to turn her attention by asking her,—“Knew you King Edward of Westminster?” (See note 3.)
“Nay, Lady de Sergeaux, with what years do you credit me?” rejoined the nun, laughing a little. “Edward of Westminster was dead ere I was born. But I have heard of him from them that did remember him well. He was a goodly man, of lofty stature, and royal presence: a wise man, and a cunning (clever)—saving only that he opposed our holy Father the Pope.”