“To Harry of Bolingbroke?” she asked contemptuously. “When lent I him any?”
“Custance!—Of thy truth and fealty unto holy Church our mother. Nor, maybe, shall she be over ready to lift up out of the mire one whom all the holy doctors do esteem an heretic.”
“What, I?”
“Thou.”
“I never was an heretic yet, Isabel, but I do thee to wit thou goest the way to make me so. As to holy Church, she never was my mother. I can breathe without her frankincense, belike, and maybe all the freer.”
“Alas, Custance! Me feareth sore thou art gone a long way on that ill road, else hadst thou never spoken such unseemly words.”
“Be it so!” said Constance, with the recklessness of overwhelming misery. “An heretic’s daughter, and an heretic’s widow—what less might ye look for? If thou hast mangled mine heart enough to serve thee, Isabel, I would thou wert out of my sight!”
“Fair Cousin, I do ensure thee mine own lieth bleeding for thy pain.”
“Ay, forsooth! I see the drops a-dripping!” said Constance in bitter mockery. “Marry, get thee hence—’tis the sole mercy thou canst do me.”
“So will I; but, Custance, I ensure thee, I am bidden to abide hither the setting of thine hand to that paper.”