Sir Jasper laughed quietly, standing to his full, brave height. “And either way it does not matter, wife—so long as the Prince has need of me. You’ll find me kneeling, one way or the other.”
From the shadowed hall, with the candles flickering in the sconces, their son came out into the open—their son, who could not go to war because he was untrained. He had been listening to them.
“Father,” he said, “I must ride with you. Indeed, I cannot stay at home.”
Sir Jasper answered hastily, as men will when they stand in the thick of trouble. “What, you? You cannot, lad. Your place is here, as I told you—to guard your mother and Windyhough.”
The lad winced, and turned to seek the shadows again, after one long, searching glance at the other’s unrelenting face. And Lady Royd forgot the past. She followed him, brought him back again into the candlelight. One sharp word from the father had bidden her protect this son who was bone of her bone. Rupert looked at her in wonder. She had been his enemy till now; yet suddenly she was his friend.
He looked gravely at her—a man of five-and-twenty, who should have known better than to blurt out the deeper thoughts that in prudent folk lie hidden. “Mother,” he said, striving to keep the listless, care-naught air that was his refuge against the day’s intrusions—“mother——”
She had not heard the word before—not as it reached her now—because she had not asked for it. It was as if she had lived between four stuffy walls, fearing to go out into the gladness and the pain of motherhood.
“Yes, boy?” she asked, with lover-like impatience for the answer.
“You are kind to—to pity me. But it seems to make it harder,” he said with extreme simpleness. “I’m no son to be proud of, mother.” His voice was low, uncertain, as he looked from one to the other of these two who had brought him into a troubled world.
Then he glanced shyly at his father. “I could die, sir, for the Prince,” he added, with a touch of humour. “But they say I cannot live for him.”