“Pray, mistress,” saith I, “how old be you to-morrow? Let me think, will it be all of eleven years?”
To tell truth, I knew her years as well as she. It was nine years since my Lady’s mother, Dame Eleonore of Comminges, had brought and left her daughter with my Lord, Gaston Phoebus, Comte de Foix.
Comte Gaston was my Lady’s cousin, and poor Dame Eleonore, her mother, fleeing from a cruel husband, knew not where to place the child, so sought advice from Comte Gaston, a powerful and great lord.
“Leave her with me,” saith my Lord, who had taken a fancy to my little Lady, then but a child of three. She was the first bright thing that had come to the old castle of Orthez, which was but a gloomy tower since in a rage my Lord Gaston had slain his only son, and driven forth to her own people his wife, the Princess Agnes.
Canst thou wonder that we all loved the child?
None knew nor loved her better than I, being that my Lord Gaston gave me to be her page and playfellow, since there were but scullery maids and some rude wenches in the castle since the Princess Agnes went forth. So who should doubt but that I should know my Lady’s age? Besides this I was but four years older come Hallowe’en.
Being well grown and tall, she was ever tender on the subject of her years. By my Lord’s command, she had been taught to play on the lute, she could walk a measure, hunt and hawk, and since the new tirewoman had come, there had been much bravery of apparel. So ’twas but to tease her and keep her from the mews that I put forth,—
“All of eleven years?”
“’Tis not so, and you know it,” quoth she, and then came the buffet.
I choked down my rage, and turning to those that mocked me, thought to bring the laugh on her.