“J-J-Jack Straw?” quoth the peddler.
“Talk not to me of Jack Straw,” she cried. “Would that I could trust Jack Straw! He must not come at the King. Where 's a true man to lead the people? Thou might'st, well, peddler,—but for thy stammering tongue.”
He sunk his chin on his breast and strode beside her, dogged, silent.
One day they came to a manor-house, very grim, and moated round about; and as they stood on the edge of the moat, looking in, there rode by three damsels with falcons on their wrists, and a page boy with them who hollaed to let down the drawbridge. Now while as they waited, and the bridge creaked, one of those damsels espied Calote, and marvelled at the colour of her hair which blew about her face.
“Come hither, wench!” said this maiden, whose name was Eleyne. “Art thou a jongleuse?”
“I can sing a many tales, madame,” Calote answered.
“Ah, Saint Mary! bring her in!” cried another of the damsels; the fairest this one, hight Godiyeva.
“Yonder fellow, hath he his wits?” asked the youngest of the three, and she pointed at the peddler.
“His wits, yea, madame; but not his tongue,” said Calote.
“Haply he 'll dance, or leap, or twirl swords on his finger tip?” Godiyeva averred. “We 're so dull; hath been no minstrel nor jongleur, nor bearward even, at our gate for nigh on three moons.”