Then the drinking began again, and Rosamund and the ladies slipped away, as well they might—for the times were rough and coarse.
On the morrow, after most of the guests were gone, many of them with aching heads, Godwin and Wulf sought their uncle, Sir Andrew, in the solar where he sat alone, for they knew Rosamund had walked to the church hard by with two of the serving women to make it ready for the Friday’s mass, after the feast of the peasants that had been held in the nave. Coming to his oaken chair by the open hearth which had a chimney to it—no common thing in those days—they knelt before him.
“What is it now, my nephews?” asked the old man, smiling. “Do you wish that I should knight you afresh?”
“No, sir,” answered Godwin; “we seek a greater boon.”
“Then you seek in vain, for there is none.”
“Another sort of boon,” broke in Wulf.
Sir Andrew pulled his beard, and looked at them. Perhaps the Prior John had spoken a word to him, and he guessed what was coming.
“Speak,” he said to Godwin. “The gift is great that I would not give to either of you if it be within my power.”
“Sir,” said Godwin, “we seek the leave to ask your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“What! the two of you?”