“Why not bring her with us?”
“Aye. That is to be thought of. There are always more ways of killing a dog than choking him wi’ butter.”
“But you must marry the lady first, Roger. At a pinch, Fra Pietro—”
“The devil fly off with thee and thy pinching! Who spoke of marrying? Thy humor, at times, Walter, is dry as the Swale after a drought.”
“From what I have seen of the Countess I fear that marriage will be the only cure for her affliction.”
“By the cross of Osmotherly!” cried Sainton, hotly, “if that be her malady she will ail a long time ere I give her physic. Marry, forsooth! If ever I seek a wife, which I greatly doubt, I’ll hitch up wi’ a lass from my own dales. Not that Matilda is ill-looking, or, for that matter, as skittish as some I have seen, but may the Lord help any woman I bring to Wensley afore my mother runs an eye over her!”
“I fear, then, her Ladyship must remain here willy-nilly.”
Sainton, more annoyed than he cared to show, drew his long neglected sword and began to burnish it affectionately.
“Thou hast a toad’s tongue at times, lad,” he growled, breathing on the steel before rubbing it to a fine sheen. “The thing had not troubled me a whit hadst thou not spoken of it, but, now I come to think over bygones, I am constrained to admit that mayhap her Ladyship may have construed my actions amiss. Women are oft prone to look through a chink when the door is open all the time. On my soul I fear to face her. My hang-dog looks will betray me and she’ll upbraid me. Go thou, Walter, and tell her—tell her—”
“That thou hast no mind to wed. Nay, Roger, that would be ungallant, to say the least.”