She nursed her wrath, and said nothing until her husband came to bed. And when he would have cuddled and kissed her, and done his proper duty as a husband, and so earned his “caudle”, (*) she turned herself first on one side and then on the other, so that he could not attain his purpose, at which he was greatly astonished and angry, and said to her,
(*) It was the custom in the Middle Ages to bring in the
middle of the wedding night, a caudle of hot milk, soup, or
spiced wine to the married couple.
“Why do you do that, my dear?”
“I have good cause,” she replied, “for I see from your acts that you do not care for me. There are many others you like better than me.”
“By my faith,” said he, “there is no woman in the world I love better than you.”
“Ah!” she said, “did I not see you after dinner holding discourse for a long time with a woman who was in the room! I saw you only too plainly, and you cannot excuse yourself.”
“By our Lady,” he replied, “you have no cause to be jealous about her,” and with that he told her that it was the daughter of his master at Brussels, and how he had lain with her and made her pregnant, and on that account he had left the place; and how also after his departure, she became so big with child that it was perceived, and then she had confessed to her mother who had seduced her, and her mother had sent her to him that he might undo that which he had done, or else she must never return home.
When the young man had finished his story, his wife who had been struck by one portion of it, said;
“What? Do you say that she told her mother you had slept with her?”
“Yes,” he said; “she made it all known to her.”