At Hastings by the Channel
(Drink the wine to the lees!)
Our Harold the Saxon died.
If there be no cakes from Normandy,
There’ll be more ale in England!”
“Well sung, nobility, and well said,” cried Buonespoir, with a rose by the stem in his mouth, one hand beating time to the music, the other clutching a flagon of muscadella; “for the Normans are kings in England, and there’s drink in plenty at the court of our Lady Duchess.”
“Delicio shall never want while I have a penny of hers to spend,” quoth the fool, feeling for another tune.
“Should conspirators prevail, and the damnedest be, she hath yet the Manor of Rozel and my larder,” urged Lemprière, with a splutter through the canary.
“That shall be only when the fifth wind comes—it is so ordained, Nuncio!” said the fool, blinking.
Buonespoir set down his flagon. “And what wind is the fifth wind?” he asked, scratching his bullet-head, his childlike, wide-spread eyes smiling the question.