“Only this, Custance,” replied her cousin in a deprecating tone, “that sithence, though it were not good by law of holy Church, yet there was some matter of marriage betwixt thee and my Lord of Kent; and men’s tongues, thou wist, will roll and rumble unseemlily,—it seemed good unto his Highness that it should be fully exhibit to the world how little true import were therein; and accordingly he would have thee to put thine hand to a paper, wherein thou shalt knowledge that the marriage had betwixt you two was against the law of holy Church, and is therefore null and void. If thou wilt do the same, I am bid to tell thee, thou shalt have free liberty to come forth hence, and all lands of thy dower restored.”
“Art at an end?”
“Ay; therewith closeth my commission.”
“Then have back at thy leisure, and tell Harry of Bolingbroke from me that I defy him and Satan his master alike. I will set mine hand to no such lie, as there is a Heaven above me, and beneath him an Hell!”
“Custance!” remonstrated her cousin in a scandalised tone.
But Constance lifted her head, and flung up her hands towards heaven.
“O God of Paradise!” she cried, “holy and true, just in Thy judgments, look upon us two—this King and me—and betwixt us judge this day! Look upon us, Lady of Pity, Lily of Christendom, and say whether of us two is the sinner! O all ye Angels, all ye Saints in Heaven! that sin not, but plead for us sinners,—plead ye this day with God that He will render to each of us two his due, as he hath demerited! Before you, before holy Church, before God in Heaven, I denounce this man Harry of Bolingbroke! Render unto him, O Lord! render unto him his desert!”
“Custance, thou mayest better take this matter more meekly,” observed Isabel with quiet propriety, very different from her cousin’s tone and mien of frenzied passion. “I have told thee truth, and no lie. What should it serve? The priest is excommunicate, and my Lord of Kent shall wed the Lady Lucy, and the King will have thine hand thereto, ere thou come forth.”
“Not if I die here a thousand times!”
“I do thee to wit, Custance, that there is grave doubt cast of thy truth and fealty—”