The small household left at Carrickfergus had but a dull time of it after the Earl had ridden away for Cork. Two months, and half of a third, dragged wearily along, and not a word came from either Cork or Wigmore. The third month was drawing to its close when, late one snowy winter night, the faint sound of a horn announced the approach of visitors.
"The saints give it maybe my Lord!" exclaimed Constantine Byterre, who was as weary of comparative solitude as a lively young man could well be.
The drawbridge was thrown across, the portcullis pulled up, and Sir Thomas Mortimer rode into the courtyard, followed by Reginald de Pageham and various other members of the Earl's household. They had evidently ridden a long way, for their horses were exceedingly jaded.
"How does my Lord Roger?" were the first words of Sir Thomas, and the porter perceived that he was either very tired, or very sad.
"Well, sweet Sir: in his bed, as a child should be at this hour."
"Thank God! Bid Mistress Wenteline down to hall, for I must speak with her quickly."
"Sweet Sir, I pray you of your grace, is aught ill?"
"Very ill indeed, good Alan." But Sir Thomas did not explain himself until Guenllian appeared.
It was necessary to rouse her gently, since she slept in little Roger's chamber, and Sir Thomas had given orders that if possible he should not be disturbed. Fearing she knew not what, Guenllian wrapped herself in a thick robe, and descended to the hall.
"Mistress, I give you good greeting: and I do you to wit right heavy tidings, for Lord Edmund the Earl lieth dead in Cork Castle."