Till now we had been friends together, playmates. The priest whom my Lord Gaston had brought to dwell in the castle taught us to read, and when we irked him overmuch sent us packing. Then would we spend the time running over the great old castle, shooting with the bow and arrow, and teaching the shagged greyhounds to fetch and carry.
But from to-day all was different. She was a great lady, and I her page Jehan, to hand her cup, to do her bidding within doors, and to ride at her litter’s side or by her saddle when she went abroad, with my sword loosened and hand steady and prompt at her need.
On the fourth day my Lord Gaston rode out with the Due de Berry to see him fare forth. My mistress stood upon the steps as they set out, with her sky-blue jewel in her hair and her cheeks like maybuds. The Due had bent and kissed her hand, and of a truth I heard him say,—
“Farewell, mistress. Thou wilt hear from me again, and that shortly.”
She saith never a word, but looked into his face and smiled.
Now once again it was “Jehan here” and “Jehan there,” and we fell back into our old ways. I digged and tilled for her the garden patch without the walls of the castle, for this was a year of richness, and my Lady’s gillyflowers and lavender, lilies and coriander, showed bright beside the dull potherbs, anise, mustard, and storax, and the beds of leeks, dittany, lettuces, and garden-cress. We had words over the poppies.
“Jehan,” saith she, “didst ever see the poppies brighter than they be this spring?”
“Fair they be, mistress, and of a size too, so that the seeds will be choice, and none need suffer for lack of a sleeping draught if they be ill!”
“Mean you to save all the flowers for seeds?”
“Of a truth, yes, mistress, since they be so fine.”