I knew quite well what she meant, and blushed again. I shook my head.
"I think it was going to be," she said sagely, "only Mistress Dymphna came upon the scene. You have heard the story of the donkey halting between two bundles of hay, Master Francis? And in the multitude of sweethearts there is safety."
"I do not think that was my case," I said. Instinctively my hand went to my breast, in which Petronilla's velvet sword-knot lay safe and warm. The Duchess saw the gesture and instantly bent forward and mimicked it. "Ha! ha!" she cried, leaning back with her hands clasped about her knees, and her eyes shining with fun and amusement. "Now I understand. You have left her at home; now, do not deny it, or I will tell the others. Be frank and I will keep your secret, on my honor."
"She is my cousin," I said, my cheeks hot.
"And her name?"
"Petronilla."
"Petronilla?" my lady repeated shrewdly. "That was the name of your Spanish grandmother, then?"
"Yes, madam."
"Petronilla? Petronilla?" she repeated, stroking her cheek with her hand. "She would be before my time, would she not? Yet there used to be several Petronillas about the court in Queen Catherine of Aragon's days, I remember. There was Petronilla de Vargas for one. But there, I guess at random. Why do you not tell me more about yourself, Master Francis? Do you not know me well enough now?"
"There is nothing to tell, madam," I said in a low voice.