In answer to inquiries, the messenger replied that he “thought the Trent was rising. It was higher than when his lord had left Swarkstone.”
It had been still lower at sunrise that day.
Two hours later Friar John blew the horn at the gate. He and his mule were pitiably drenched.
The Dove was swollen when he crossed the bridge near Egginton, he said, though the downpour did not come until he had left it five miles behind.
“Now, heaven forfend there be not such a flood as swept Swark’s Stone away three summers back. The passage of the ford would be perilous to my lord now that is gone,” cried Lady Bellamont, wringing her hands, and it might seem with reason, for now the floodgates of the skies were loosed, and heaven’s artillery waged war with earth.
“Storms and travellers are in Almighty hands, good dame,” said Prior John, soberly. “Tell your beads devoutly, and trust your all to Him.”
Avice and Idonea, with other damsels and dames, were already on their knees in prayer, their hearts beating wildly.
William Harpur, pacing up and down, glanced through the dim glass windows on the scene without, and then from one to other of the shuddering women within.
“I think, Prior John,” he observed, with a slight curl of lip, “it will be a sorry welcome for my noble kinsman and his friends when they come in, wet and weary, if no board be spread, no dry garments ready for their use.”
The taunt seemed to sting the good dame.