"Then I repeat the question, 'Do you know where this maid's sister is?'"
"No, sire."
"But you can make a shrewd guess? Come, yes or no. You believe you know where she is?"
"Yes," I made answer.
"Ah, that is good. And now we will see, Mistress Constance, who is master. Now we will see whether the king will not have his way." And then again he said that which I will not write down.
Surely, I have told myself since, he must have been brutalized by too much wine, or he would never have spoken as he did, for his speech was that of a villain in a fourth rate stage play, rather than of one in whose veins ran royal blood.
"I cannot get at you through your father," he said to her, "but I can and will through your sister. You care nothing for the old hot-gospeller; well, I can forgive you for that. But this sister of yours, well, you have suffered much for her already, and would suffer more. Ah, yes, pretty Constance, I see through you. To avert suspicion from her you have e'en gone abroad as the wife of this Denman; you have fetched and carried for him like a dog. Well, now, to save her, you shall e'en do as much and more for your king. For if you will not, I will make this sister of thine—but I will not speak of that now. You will be wise, and do my will. Now then, Master Roland Rashcliffe, you say you can shrewdly guess where this other daughter of John Leslie is. Tell me, I command you."
The king was gazing eagerly at me as he spoke, but instead of returning his look I turned for a moment towards Constance, and I saw that her eyes were imploring me not to speak. But there was no confidence in them now; rather there was a great fear. She could depend on her own fortitude, but not on mine.
"I trust Your Majesty will not insist on this," I said.
"And why, Master Malapert?"