“Thou art of the Castle, then?” said he who had always spoken. “I drink to the health of thy gallant old captain, Sir Walter de Selby.”
“Thank ye, thank ye,” replied Tom, taking the flagon. “Well, here’s to old Wat. Many is the ride we have had over the Border together; and many is the hard knock we have both ta’en and given, side by side. Trust me, there breathes not a better man. His health, God wot, hath been none of the best of late; so, with thy good leave, Sir Pilgrim, I’ll drink to it again.”
“Hath he not a daughter?” demanded the pilgrim.
“Yea, that he hath,” replied Tom—“an only daughter, whose beauty hath been the talk of all Northumberland.”
“Let us drink to her health, then,” said the pilgrim.
“Here’s to the Lady de Vere, then,” said Turnberry, lifting the flagon to his head to do justice to the health.
“The Lady de Vere!” said the pilgrim who had not yet spoken, betraying an emotion that escaped Tom Turnberry, in the long draught he was taking.
“Ay, the Lady de Vere,” said Tom, taking the flagon from his head. “The Lady Eleanore de Selby is now the Lady de Vere, as we have all heard at the Castle since two or three days have gone by. Sir Walter would have fain had her marry Sir Rafe Piersie, who courted her, but his haughtiness sorted ill with her high and untameable spirit; so she was contrarisome, and ran away with a love of her own choosing some time ago.”
“And who might the lover be who bore away so rich a prize?” demanded the pilgrim.
“Why, one of the Court lordlings, as we now learn, a Sir something de Vere, a kinsman to the King’s favourite, the banished Duke of Ireland. He is but lately come from abroad, it seems, for he is a foreign knight born, and being suspected as coming on some secret mission to the King, it is thought that he will rise high in his good graces. The poor ould soul, Sir Walter, did live in grievous case until these few days bygone, [[404]]for he knew not until then what had befallen his daughter. But now that he hath learned who his son-in-law is, he hath somewhat raised his head. But fie on me,” added the squire, after a long draught, that enabled him to see the bottom of the flagon, “I must hie me to the Castle; and so good night, and many thanks, my civil masters. Trust me, I shall right willingly bestow a can upon you when ye do come this way again, if ye will but ask for old Thomas Turnberry, the esquire equerry.”