"Certainly, your worship," he replied, bowing and rubbing his hands. "There never was such an accession, nor more ale drunk, nor powder burned--and I have seen three--and there was pretty shouting at old King Harry's, but not like this. Such a fair young queen, men report, with a look of the stout king about her, and as prudent and discreet as if she had changed heads with Sir William Cecil. God bless her, say I, and send her a wise husband!"
"And a loving one," quoth my lady prettily. "Amen."
"I am glad all has gone off well," I continued, speaking to the Duchess, as I turned to the blazing hearth. "If there had been blows, I would fain have been here to strike one."
"Nay, sir, not a finger has wagged against her," the landlord answered, kicking the logs together--"to speak of, that is, your worship. I do hear to-day of a little trouble down in Warwickshire. But it is no more than a storm in a wash-tub, I am told."
"In Warwickshire?" I said, arrested, in the act of taking off my cloak, by the familiar name. "In what part, my man?"
"I am not clear about that, sir, not knowing the country," he replied. "But I heard that a gentleman there had fallen foul of her Grace's orders about church matters, and beaten the officers sent to see them carried out; and that, when the sheriff remonstrated with him, he beat him too. But I warrant they will soon bring him to his senses."
"Did you hear his name?" I asked. There was a natural misgiving in my mind. Warwickshire was large; and yet something in the tale smacked of Sir Anthony.
"I did hear it," the host answered, scratching his head, "but I cannot call it to mind. I think I should know it if I heard it."
"Was it Sir Anthony Cludde?"
"It was that very same name!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands in wonder. "To be sure! Your worship has it pat!"