Somebody’s child.
“‘Now God, that is of mightès most,
Grant him grace of the Holy Ghost
His heritage to win:
And Mary moder of mercy fre
Save our King and his meynie
Fro’ sorrow and shame and sin.’”
The song was trilled in a pleasant voice by an old lady who sat spinning in an upper chamber of Langley Palace. She paused a moment in her work, and then took up again the latter half of the strain.
“‘And Mary moder of mercy fre’—Called any yonder?”
“May I come in, Dame Agnes?” said a child’s voice at the door.
The old lady rose hastily, laid down her distaff, and opening the door, courtesied low to the little girl of ten years old who stood outside.
“Enter freely, most gracious Lady! Wherefore abide without?”
It was a pretty vision which entered. Not that there was any special beauty in the child herself, for in that respect she was merely on the pretty side of ordinary. She was tall for her age—as tall as Maude, though she was two years younger. Her complexion was very fair, her hair light with a golden tinge, and her eyes of a peculiar shade of blue, bright, yet deep—the shade known as blue eyes in Spain, but rarely seen in England. But her costume was a study for a painter. Little girls dressed like women in the fourteenth century; and this child wore a blue silk tunic embroidered with silver harebells, over a brown velvet skirt spangled with rings of gold. Her hair was put up in a net of golden tissue, ornamented with pearls. The dress was cut square at the neck; she wore a pearl necklace, and a girdle of turquoise and pearls. Two rows of pearls and turquoise finished the sleeves at the wrist; they were of brown velvet, like the skirt. This finery was evidently nothing new to the little wearer. She came into the room and flung herself carelessly down on a small stool, close to the chair where Dame Agnes had been sitting—to the unfeigned horror of that courtly person.
“Lady, Lady! Not on a stool, for love of the blessed Mary!”
And drawing forward an immense old arm-chair, Dame Agnes motioned the child to take it.