“Ay!” said the Countess, with a long, weary sigh. “I do, so! Nor out of men’s hearts, belike. Well, Avena, to come down to such petty matter as I count I shall be suffered to have, prithee, bring me some violet silk of this shade for broidery, and another yard or twain of red samitelle for the backing. It were not in thy writ of matters allowable, I reckon, that the pedlars should come up and open their packs in my sight?”
Lady Foljambe looked scandalised.
“Dear heart! Dame, what means your Grace?”
“I know,” said the Countess. “They have eyes, no less than I; and they shall see an old woman in white doole, and fall to marvelling, and maybe talking, wherefore their Lord King Edward keepeth her mewed up with bars across her casement. His Grace’s honour must be respected, trow. Be it done. ’Tis only one penny the more to the account that the Lord of the helpless shall demand of him one day. I trust he hath in his coffers wherewith to pay that debt. Verily, there shall be some strange meetings in that further world. I marvel something what manner of tale mine old friend De Mauny carried thither this last January, when he went on the long journey that hath no return. Howbeit, seeing he wedded his master’s cousin, maybe it were not to his conveniency to remind the Lord of the old woman behind the bars at Hazelwood. It should scantly redound to his lord’s credit. And at times it seemeth me that the Lord lacketh reminding, for He appears to have forgot me.”
“I cannot listen, Dame, to such speech of my Sovereign.”
“Do thy duty, Avena. After all, thy Sovereign’s not bad man, as men go. Marvellous ill they go, some of them! He hath held his sceptre well even betwixt justice and mercy on the whole, saving in two matters, whereof this old woman is one, and old women be of small account with most men. He should have fared well had he wist his own mind a bit better—but that’s in the blood. Old King Harry, his father’s grandfather, I have heard say, was a weary set-out for that. Go thy ways, Avena, and stand not staring at me. I’m neither a lovesome young damsel nor a hobgoblin, that thou shouldst set eyes on me thus. Three ells of red samitelle, and two ounces of violet silk this hue—and a bit of gold twist shall harm no man. Amphillis, my maid, thou art not glued to the chamber floor like thy mistress; go thou and take thy pleasure to see the pedlars’ packs. Thou hast not much here, poor child!”
Amphillis thankfully accepted her mistress’s considerate permission, and ran down to the hall. She found the mercer’s pack open, and the rich stuffs hung all about on the forms, which had been pulled forward for that purpose. The jeweller meanwhile sat in a corner, resting until he was wanted. Time was not of much value in the Middle Ages.