As if to confirm the falconer in his fears, Mistress Anne was informed by the porter of the lodge as they passed through the gate that the Constable desired her immediate presence in his own apartment.
“For what purpose does he seek it?” The question was asked with the impatience of a spoiled child.
“I know not, mistress,” said the porter gravely. “I do but know that when the Constable returned from his ride in the town he asked for you and left the message I have given.”
“When did Sir John return?”
“Not an hour ago, mistress.”
In the courtyard, with an air of resolute laughter, Mistress Anne yielded her horse to the falconer’s care. Unabashed, in her amazing garment, which set off her long-flanked slenderness adorably, she strode into the great house. The fine, free gait was not without a suspicion of a manly swagger, which the Queen’s ladies had also affected. Boldly and fearlessly she entered the presence of the august Sir John Feversham.
The Constable was seated alone in his dark-paneled room. It was easy to see whence came his young daughter’s handsome looks and strength of will. It was a face that few of that age could have matched for power and masculine beauty. The gray eyes had a very direct and searching quality, the forehead was lofty and ascetic; indeed the man’s whole aspect proclaimed that here was one who had learned many high secrets not only of the body, but of the soul.
This was not a man to be trifled with, and none knew that better than his daughter. But this unhappy day she was a young woman overborne by a sense of her own consequence.
“You sent for me, Sir John.” The voice was half defiance, half disdain.
“Yes, mistress, I did so.”