“Change thy design,” advised Wat, sagely. “To whom canst thou complain with the goodman ill? Franklyn ever favours Roger.”
There was truth enough in the words to make Hugh very angry with the feeling of having been treacherously dealt with, and of having no means of righting himself. When, the next day, Roger went off to the Cathedral, rightly or wrongly Wat and Hugh fancied there was an air of triumph about him, which was infuriating. Hugh could not be spared, but Wat vowed he would make out by one means or another what he was intending to carve. He began by coming up to him as he stood at the foot of the ladder choosing his chisel, and asking what was his subject. It took Wat rather aback when Roger stared full in his face and answered, “Ivy.”
“Ivy! What, the same as Hugh?”
“I know naught of Hugh.”
“That thou didst then. Thou hast heard him speak of it a dozen times.”
“I have better things to do than to listen to idle prentice talk.”
“The master can witness that thou heardest.”
“Let him—when he can!” said Roger, with a hard laugh.
“Now, out on thee for a false loon!” cried Wat.
He might have said more but that two of the chapter were close at hand, and he flung himself away with a heart full of rage, and betook himself to his own corbel, on which he vented a good deal of force which he would gladly have employed in pommelling Roger. And this having a calming effect, he came to the conclusion that it would be best for Hugh to take no notice of the older man’s perfidy. There was no proof that Roger had stolen the design, there was nothing except honour to prevent his using the same foliage, and with Gervase ill, an accusation might meet with little attention, and perhaps harm Hugh more than Roger.