A low cry of pain and horror broke from Guenllian.
"Surely not slain of the wild men?"
"In no wise. He died a less glorious death, for he took ill rheum, fording the Lee, and in five days therefrom he was no more."
It was as natural for a Lollard as for any other to respond, "Whose soul God pardon!"
"Amen," said Sir Thomas, crossing himself. "I trust you, mistress mine, to break these tidings to the young Earl. Have here my dead Lord's token"—and he held forth a chased gold ring. "I am bidden, if it shall stand with the King's pleasure, to have back his little Lordship to my Lady his grandmother at Wigmore."
"Poor child!" said Guenllian tremulously. "Poor child!"
"Aye, 'tis sad news for him," was the answer. "Yet childre's grief lasteth not long. Methought, good my mistress, it were as well he should not hear it until the morrow."
"Trust me, Sir. It were cruelty to wake a child up to such news. Aye, but I am woe for my little child! Mereckoneth he were not one to grow up well without a father—and without mother belike! The morrow's tears shall be the least part of his sorrow."
"Ah, well! God must do His will," replied Sir Thomas in a fatalistic manner.
To him, God's will was only another term for what a heathen would have styled inevitable destiny. In connection with the expression, he no more thought of God as a real, living, loving Personality, than he would have thought of Destiny in like manner. It was simply as an impalpable but invincible law that had to take its course. But on Guenllian's ear the expression came with a wholly different meaning. That Almighty Being who to the one was merely the embodiment of stern fate, was to the other at once God and Father—the incarnation of all wisdom and of all love. It was His will that little Roger should be left fatherless. Then it was the best thing that He could do for him: and He would be Himself the child's Father. The very thought which was the worst part of the sorrow to the one was the greatest alleviation of it to the other.