“Just all the story of how the devil came to her and she sold him her soul for ease and triumph. But he’s not a bargain-keeper—never was! And how he flew with her through air and stone wall, and set her in Brother Richard’s cell, in place of Queen of Heaven. What she said and did, and how the devil, all of a sudden seeing that heaven had struck Brother Richard with the knowledge, ‘This is not the Queen, this is not the true bright one!’ went about to confuse all Brother Richard’s wits, turning him into worse than Doubting Thomas, for now he doubts all things both before and after. But she sticks to saying, ‘It was I from the first, and the devil was Prior Matthew, Abbot Mark consenting.’ And Father Edmund preacheth again. Eh, but Friday cometh and she will soon be but a story! Morgen Fay and the devil.”
Thomas Bettany rode once more with merchant’s pack to Wander forest, having first gone to Golden Ship by the water side, where he met Diccon Wright and bought him with love. It was again rose dawn. To one who at edge of town stopped and questioned him, he said that he was riding to Somerville Hall.
“Do you not know Sir Robert has gone to London? He rode away yesterday with three behind him.”
“Oh, aye! But there was message left for me. One day I’ll travel myself! View Rome and Constantinople and Cambalu.”
“It’s in my mind that he did not wish to see Morgen Fay burn.”
“Maybe so! I’d rather myself see fairies by moonlight or a fair still garden.”
Ruined farm and David and Margery to whom gentlemen were gentlemen, whatever strange things they wished, and rose nobles were rose nobles. “Oh, aye! Who is there for us to tattle to save it be Dobbin and the cow? There’s naught doing like that Joan who turned to be a witch named Morgen? We might ha’ had trouble there, but Somerville stepped in and turned it aside. So you’ll ha’ to do, Master Bettany, if there’s any mistaken doing here—”
“Aye, I will. But there’s none.”
This was a day of gold dust, still, warm, a haze and floating stillness. Ruined farm and forest hereabouts might have had a hedge around them like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. No ears heard fine smithwork, for Philemon and Baucis were deaf, and went beside to planted field. The fairies might have heard.
Mid-afternoon Thomas Bettany returned to town. Near the old wall, now on the high road, he overtook a string of pilgrims footweary and dusty. The leader hailed him, handsome young burgher riding a fine horse. “Canst tell us, master, what inn is best for us?”