The lady who sat on the white palfrey turned her face towards the Earl of Kent, and, slightly blushing and smiling, spoke a few words of courteous French, indicating her acceptance of his society for the day.
She was the most beautiful woman whom Kent had ever seen. Her figure was very slight, and her carriage easy and graceful; her age was about twenty. Glossy, luxuriant hair, of the deepest black, shaded a delicate face, in shape midway between round and oval, the features of which, though very regular, could not strictly be termed either Roman or Grecian, for the nose was too straight for the former, while the forehead was too prominent and too fully developed for the latter. Her eyes were usually cast down, so that they were rarely seen; but when she raised them, they showed themselves large, lustrous, and clear, of a rich, deep, gleaming brown. Her complexion was formed neither of lilies nor roses; it was that pure, perfect cream-colour, which one William Shakspere knew was beautiful, though some of his commentators have rashly differed from him. Add to this description a low, musical voice, strangely clear for her nationality, and a smile of singular fascination,—and it will not seem strange that Kent fell into the snare laid for him, and had no eyes thenceforward but for Lucia Visconti.
The King kept all day near his decoy and his victim. He never interfered with their conversation, but when it languished he was always at hand to supply some fresh topic. They spoke French, which was understood and employed fluently by all three; but Kent knew no Italian, and Lucia no English. The King spoke Lucia’s language well—a fact which greatly assisted an occasional “aside.” But Lucia was only half aware of the state of affairs, and it would not have suited Henry’s purpose to inform her too fully. She knew that she was expected to make herself agreeable to the Earl of Kent, and that he was a cousin and favourite of the King—so far as a man of Henry’s stamp can be said to have had any favourites. But of the plot for which she was made the innocent decoy, she had not the faintest idea.
The shades of evening began to fall at last, and the royal bugle-horn was sounded to call the stragglers home.
Kent and Lucia were riding together. They had reached a fork in the road, where the right-hand path branched off to Berkhamsted, and the left to Langley. And all at once there arose before Kent’s soul a haunting memory—a memory which was to haunt him for many a day thereafter; and between his eyes and the fair face of the Italian Princess came another face, shaded with soft light hair, and lighted by sapphire eyes, which, he thought, were probably watching even now from the oriel window at Langley. He checked his horse, and wavered irresolutely for an instant.
He did not know that Constance was no longer at Langley. He did not know that at the very moment when he paused at the cross-roads, she was passing the threshold of the Tower as a prisoner of state. For that one moment Kent’s better angel strove with his weak nature. But the phase of “beaucoup” was over, and “point du tout” was beginning.
Lucia saw the momentary irresolution. She touched her palfrey lightly with the whip, and turned her splendid eyes on her votary.
“This way, Monseigneur—come!” The struggle was over. Kent spurred on his charger, and followed his enchantress.
There was another scene enacting at the same time, and not far away. The Duke of York and Lord Richard of Conisborough were riding home to Langley. The brothers were very silent; Richard because he was sad and anxious, Edward because he was vexed and sullen. They had just heard of their sister’s arrest.
The portcullis at Langley was visible, when Edward smote his hand on the pommel of his saddle—a much more elaborate structure than gentlemen’s saddles now—with a few words of proverbial Spanish.