“In good sooth, ’tis a fair spot!” she said half aloud. “And all new swept and garnished!”
There was no mocking echo in the chamber. If there had been, the words might have been borne back to the ear of the royal Alianora—“Not only garnished, but swept!”
My Lady touched the silver bell, and a crowd of damsels answered her call. Among them came Alina; and she held by the hand the little flaxen-haired child, who had played so prominent a part in the events of the morning.
“Do you all speak French?” asked the Countess in that language—which, be it remembered, was in the reign of Edward the Third the mother-tongue of the English nobles.
She received an affirmative reply from all.
“That is well. See to my sumpter-mules being unladen, and the gear brought up hither.—What a pretty child! whose is it?”
Alina brought the little girl forward, and answered for her. “The Lady Philippa Fitzalan, my Lord’s daughter.”
“My Lord’s daughter!” And a visible frown clouded the Countess’s brow. “I knew not he had a daughter— Oh! that child! Take her away—I do not want her. Mistress Philippa, for the future. That is my pleasure.”
And with a decided pout on her previously smiling lips, the Lady of Arundel seated herself at her tiring-glass. Alina caught up the child, and took her away to a distant chamber in a turret of the castle, where she set her on her knee, and shed a torrent of tears on the little flaxen head.
“Poor little babe! fatherless and motherless!” she cried. “Would to our dear Lady that thou wert no worse! The blessed saints help thee, for none other be like to do it save them and me.”