“And the youngest-born, the Lady Lucy, I take it, is yet unwed?”
“She is so.”
“And cometh not behind her sisters for beauty?”
“She was but a little child when I was at Milan,” said the King; “but I hear tell of her as fairest of all the fair Visconti.”
“Were it impossible, Sire, that the lady, in company of her young brothers, should visit your Highness’ Court?”
Henry readily owned that it was by no means impossible, if he were to ask it: but he reminded the Archbishop that the Duke of Milan was poor, though proud; and that while he would consider the Princess Lucia eternally disgraced by marrying beneath her, he probably would not scruple to sell her hand to the highest bidder of those illustrious persons who stood on the list of eligibles. And Kent, semi-royal though he were, was not a rich man, his family having suffered severely from repeated attainders.
“And what riches he hath goeth in velvet and ouches,” (jewellery) said the Archbishop, with his cold, sarcastic smile. “Well—if the Duke’s Grace would fain pick up ducats even in the mire, mayhap he shall find them as plenty in England as otherwhere. Your Highness can heald (pour forth) gold with any Prince in Italy. And when the lady is hither, ’twere easy to bid an hunting party, an’ your Grace so list. My cousin of Kent loveth good hawking.”
Again that keen, cruel smile parted the priestly lips.
“Moreover, Sire, she must be a Prince’s daughter, or my cousin, who likewise loveth grandeur and high degree, may count the cost ere he swallow the bait. The Lady Custance is not lightly matched for blood.”
“You desire this thing, holy Father?”