“God pardon King Henry’s soul!”
He was answered by varying exclamations in different tones.
“Ay, Madam, ’tis too true!” broke forth young Richard, addressing his mother; “but mine uncle’s Grace willed me not to speak thereof until he so should.”
“Harry of Bolingbroke is dead?—Surely no!”
“Dead as a door-nail,” said York unfeelingly.
“Was he sick of long-time?”
“Long enough!” responded York in the same manner. “Long enough to weary every soul that ministered to his fantasies, and to cause them ring the church bells for joy that their toil was over. Leprosy, by my troth!—a sweet disorder to die withal!”
“Ned, I pray thee keep some measure in speech.”
“By the Holy Coat of Treves! but if thou wouldst love to deal withal, Custance, thy tarrying at Kenilworth hath wrought mighty change in thee. Marry, it pleased the Lady Queen to proffer unto me an even’s watch in the chamber. ‘Good lack! I thank your Grace,’ quoth I, ‘but ’tis mine uttermost sorrow that I should covenant with one at Hackney to meet with me this even, and I must right woefully deny me the ease that it should do me to abide with his Highness.’ An honest preferment, to be his sick nurse, by Saint Lawrence his gridiron! Nay, by Saint Zachary his shoe-strings, but there were two words to that bargain!”
“Then what did your Grace, Uncle?” said Isabel in her cool, grown-up style.