“Wilt thou that I put forth the wench, madame?” questioned Sir John.
His brother of Kent laughed and clapped him on the back.
“Nay, pray you pardon, madame,” said a chamberlain; “the damsel, and the clerk her father, is sent for of the King. 'T is whispered the tall fellow will tilt with Dan Chaucer.”
The Queen and all her ladies laughed, and Calote, marking their eyes cast scornful upon her, drew back to hide behind her father.
“This is Etienne Fitzwarine's doing,” said the Queen. “I cannot abye him since he 's returned from pilgrimage.”
“Natheless, 't is a maid hath a kindly heart,” said Godiyeva. “Did me and my sisters a good turn I 'll not forget.”
“Wilt speak with her, mistress? I 'll bring her,” quoth Sir John.
But the Queen stayed him with a frown and “Let be!” and when she had looked beyond Calote she saw the sober gentleman that stood not far off, and to him she beckoned, smiling:—
“A ballad, Master Gower,—nay, leave excuse; thy French is not of Paris,—'t is a fault forgiven long since and thrice o'er;—abate!”
So this sober gentleman that was Master Gower sat him down lowly at the feet of Joanna the Fair, and having thrust his finger in his gold collar, as it choked him, anon he began:—