“Unfortunately, Marten retaliated by signing the King’s death warrant,” said Medenham.
“Of course. What else could one expect from a person of his class?”
“But Sir Henry Marten was a celebrated judge, and the son of a baronet, and he married a rich widow—these are not the prevalent democratic vices,” persisted Medenham.
“You must have sat up half the night reading the guidebook,” she cried in vexation at her blunder.
Cynthia laughed so cheerfully that Mrs. Devar thought she had scored. Medenham left it at that, and was content. Both he and Cynthia knew that lack of space forbade indulgence in such minor details of history on the part of the book’s compiler.
Another little incident heated Mrs. Devar to boiling-point. Cynthia more than once hinted that, if tired, she might wait for them in the lowermost court, where a fine tree spread its shade over some benches, but the older woman persisted in visiting every dungeon and scrambling up every broken stair. The girl took several photographs, and had reached the last film in a roll, when the whim seized her to pose Medenham in front of a Norman arch.
“You look rather like a baron,” she said gleefully. “I wish I could borrow some armor and take you in character as the gentleman who built this castle. By the way, his name was Fitz-something-or-other. Was he a relation?”
“Fitz Osborne,” said Medenham.
“Ah, yes. Fitzroy means King’s son, doesn’t it?”