“Lucy of Milan!—is she not rarely beauteous?”
“I wis nought about beauty. If it lie in great staring black eyes, and a soft, debonere (amiable, pleasant) manner, like a black cat, belike so.”
For the first time, Constance fairly noticed Isabel’s peculiar smile. She sat up in her bed, with contracted brow.
“Isabel, there is worser behind.”
“There is more behind, Custance,” said Isabel coolly.
“Speak, and quickly!”
“Well, mayhap better so. Wit thou then, fair Cousin, that thy wedding with my Lord of Kent is found not good, sith—”
“Not good!” Constance said, or rather shrieked. “God in Heaven have mercy!—not good!”
“Not good, fair Cousin mine,” resumed Isabel’s even tones, “seeing that the priest which wedded you was ere that day excommunicate of heresy, nor could lawfully marry any.”
Maude’s face grew as white as her lady’s, though she gave no audible sign of her terrible apprehension that her marriage was invalid also. Isabel, who seemed to notice nothing, yet saw everything, turned quietly to her. And though the sisters of Saint Clare might be no news-mongers, the royal nun had evidently received full information on that subject.