“There be some women hard as stones!” pursued Bertram disgustedly.
For men knew the Lady Elizabeth well in those days, as fairest and gayest of the Princesses. She was King Henry’s favourite sister, though that royal gentleman showed his favour rather oddly, by granting her a quantity of damaged goods of her late husband, among which were sundry towels, “used and torn.” During the terrible struggle which had just occurred, she had sided with her brother, against King Richard, of whom her husband Exeter was a fervent partisan. Perhaps such vacillation as was occasionally to be seen in Exeter’s conduct may be traced to her influence. The night that King Richard was taken, she “made good cheer,” though the event was almost equivalent to the signing of her husband’s death-warrant. I doubt if we must not class this accomplished and beautiful Elizabeth among the most heartless women whose names have come down to us on the roll of history. And where a woman is heartless, she is heartless indeed.
“Forsooth, Master Lyngern, methinks I wis what you mean by women hard as stones,” observed Maude with a slight shudder. “They do give me alway the horrors.”
“Think you there is naught of the stone in the Lady Custance?” said Hugh in a low voice.
Maude energetically repudiated the imputation.
“She a stone? nay!—she is a butterfly,” said Bertram.
“And, pray you, which were better—to have a stone or a butterfly to your wife?” asked Hugh, laughingly.
“The stone, in good surety,” said Bertram. “I were allgates (always) afeard of hurting the butterfly.”
“Very well,” responded Hugh, rather drily; “but the stone might hurt thee.”
The summer passed very quietly at Cardiff, except for one incident. Maude spent it in learning to read, for which she had always had a strong wish, and now coaxed Father Ademar to teach her. The confessor was a Lollard, and was therefore not deterred by any fear of her becoming acquainted with forbidden books. He willingly complied with Maude’s wish.