He rode through Middle Forest High Street and coming to the door of Master Eustace Bettany, dismounted and knocked. John Cobb let him in, and Thomas Bettany was most glad to see him. But he would not tarry. He had stopped in passing to ask Thomas to make him a visit at Somerville Hall. Thomas was blithe to say yes,—if his father could spare him.
“Oh, he will spare you!” said Somerville intelligently.
His sworn follower laughed a little. In truth Somerville was important. Merchants spared sons to visit knights.
He mounted the big bay, he rode on down High Street. Thomas and John Cobb watched from the door dwindling horse and man, taken into the snow world and hidden there. Then they shook from their coats the flakes big as guilders and returned to the fire. “Now you’ve got your pleasure and your play! Did your witch bring him though?”
“No!” His blue eyes regarded John Cobb with a bright and distant look. “I’ll take you with me, John, for my man—”
The snow fell. The roof, the streets all were white. Sound wrapped itself in wool, in far time. The folk in the ways, the carts and wagons, the strong horses, went in a wafted veil. It witched them, witched the place and hour. As the snow fell fewer and fewer were abroad. Somerville also heard the bells ring.
Morgen Fay’s house watched the head of the old wall grow white, and the bridge grow white, and the flakes melt in the river. A dusky plume waved from the chimney. Below was burning wood, and Morgen Fay moved from it to window and from window back again.
She was glad to see Somerville. “If ever I needed counsel, I need it now! What is Ailsa? She cannot give it, nor can Tony! What are the others who come here? They have not thy wit, or they are too young or too old. Montjoy has wiped me from his dear soul!”
“Your eyes are red. Were you weeping for that?”
“No! And I wept not much. It does no good. My cousin, Father Edwin, is dead.”