‘He gave it to us to do as we would with it,’ argued Eleanor.
‘And she is our maiden, and it befits us not that she should look like ane scrub,’ added Jean, in the words used by her brother’s descendant, a century later.
‘I thank you, noble cousins,’ replied Annis, with a little haughtiness, ‘but Davie would never thole to see me pranking it out of English gold.’
‘She is right, Jeanie,’ cried Eleanor. ‘We will make her braw with what we bought at York with gude Scottish gold.’
‘All the more just,’ added Jean, ‘that she helped us in our need with her ain.’
‘And we are sib—near cousins after a’,’ added Eleanor; ‘so we may well give and take.’
So it was settled, and all was amicable, except that there was a slight contest between the sisters whether they should dress alike, as Eleanor wished, while Jean had eyes and instinct enough to see that the colours and forms that set her fair complexion and flaxen tresses off to perfection were damaging to Elleen’s freckles and general auburn colouring. Hitherto the sisters had worn only what they could get, happy if they could call it ornamental, and the power of choice was a novelty to them. At last the decision fell to the one who cared most about it, namely Jean. Elleen left her to settle for both, being, after the first dazzling display, only eager to get back again to Saint Marie Maudelin before the King should reclaim it.
There was something in the legend, wild and apocryphal as it is, together with what she had seen of the King, that left a deep impression upon her.
‘And by these things ye understand maun
The three best things which this Mary chose,
As outward penance and inward contemplation,
And upward bliss that never shall cease,
Of which God said withouten bees
That the best part to her chose Mary,
Which ever shall endure and never decrease,
But with her abideth eternally.’
Stiff, quaint, and awkward sounds old Bokenham’s translation of the ‘Golden Legend,’ but to Eleanor it had much power. The whole history was new to her, after her life in Scotland, where information had been slow to reach her, and books had been few. The gewgaws spread out before Jean were to her like the gloves, jewels, and braiding of hair with which Martha reproached her sister in the days of her vanity, and the cloister with its calm services might well seem to her like the better part. These nuns indeed did not strike her as models of devotion, and there was something in the Prioress’s easy way of declaring that being safe there might prevent any need of special heed, which rung false on her ear; and then she thought of King Henry, whose rapt countenance had so much struck her, turning aside from enjoyment to seclude himself at the first hint that his pleasure might be a temptation. She recollected too what Lady Drummond had told her of Father Malcolm and Mother Clare, and how each had renounced the world, which had so much to offer them, and chosen the better part! She remembered Father Malcolm’s sweet smile and kind words, and Mother Clare’s face had impressed her deeply with its lofty peace and sweetness. How much better than all these agitations about princely bridegrooms! and broken lances and queens of beauty seemed to fade into insignificance, or to be only incidents in the tumult of secular life and worldly struggle, and her spirit quailed at the anticipation of the journey she had once desired, the gay court with its follies, empty show, temptations, coarsenesses and cruelties, and the strange land with its new language. The alternative seemed to her from Maudelin in her worldly days to Maudelin at the Saviour’s feet, and had Mother Margaret Stafford been one whit more the ideal nun, perhaps every one would have been perplexed by a vehement request to seclude herself at once in the cloister of St. Helen’s.
Looking up, she saw a figure slowly pacing the turf walk. It was the Mother Clare, who had come to see the Lady of Glenuskie, but finding all so deeply engaged, had gone out to await her in the garden.
Much indeed had Dame Lilias longed to join her friend, and make the most of these precious hours, but as purse-bearer and adviser to her Lady Joanna, it was impossible to leave her till the arrangements with the merchants were over. And the nuns of St. Helen’s did not, as has already been seen, think much of an uncloistered sister. In her twenty years’ toils among the poor it had been pretty well forgotten that Mother Clare was Esclairmonde de Luxembourg, almost of princely rank, so that no one took the trouble to entertain her, and she had slipped out almost unperceived to the quiet garden with its grass walks. And there Eleanor came up to her, and with glistening tears, on a sudden impulse exclaimed, ‘Oh, holy Mother, keep me with you, tell me to choose the better part.’
‘You, lady? What is this?’
‘Not lady, daughter—help me! I kenned it not before—but all is vanity, turmoil, false show, except the sitting at the Lord’s feet.’
‘Most true, my child. Ah! have I not felt the same? But we must wait His time.’
‘It was I—it was I,’ continued Eleanor, ‘who set Jean upon this journey, leaving my brother and Mary and the bairns. And the farther we go, the more there is of vain show and plotting and scheming, and I am weary and heartsick and homesick of it all, and shall grow worse and worse. Oh! shelter me here, in your good and holy house, dear Reverend Mother, and maybe I could learn to do the holy work you do in my own country.’
How well Esclairmonde knew it all, and what aspirations had been hers! She took Elleen’s hand kindly and said, ‘Dear maid, I can only aid you by words! I could not keep you here. Your uncle the Cardinal would not suffer you to abide here, nor can I take sisters save by consent of the Queen—and now we have no Queen, of the King, and—’
‘Oh no, I could not ask that,’ said Eleanor, a deep blush mounting, as she remembered what construction might be put on her desire to remain in the King’s neighbourhood. ‘Ah! then must I go on—on—on farther from home to that Court which they say is full of sin and evil and vanity? What will become of me?’
‘If the religious life be good for you, trust me, the way will open, however unlikely it may seem. If not, Heaven and the saints will show what your course should be.’
‘But can there be such safety and holiness, save in that higher path?’ demanded Eleanor.
‘Nay, look at your own kinswoman, Dame Lilias—look at the Lady of Salisbury. Are not these godly, faithful women serving God through their duty to man—husband, children, all around? And are the longings and temptations to worldly thoughts and pleasures of the flesh so wholly put away in the cloister?’
‘Not here,’ began Eleanor, but Mother Clare hushed her.
‘Verily, my child,’ she added, ‘you must go on with your sister on this journey, trusting to the care and guidance of so good a woman as my beloved old friend, Dame Lilias; and if you say your prayers with all your heart to be guarded from sin and temptation, and led into the path that is fittest for you, trust that our blessed Master and our Lady will lead you. Have you the Pater Noster in the vulgar tongue?’ she added.
‘We—we had it once ere my father’s death. And Father Malcolm taught us; but we have since been so cast about that—that—I have forgotten.’
‘Ah! Father Malcolm taught you,’ and Esclairmonde took the girl’s hand. ‘You know how much I owe to Father Malcolm,’ she softly added, as she led the maiden to a carved rood at the end of the cloister, and, before it, repeated the vernacular version of the Lord’s Prayer till Eleanor knew it perfectly, and promised to follow up her ‘Pater Nosters’ with it.
And from that time there certainly was a different tone and spirit in Eleanor.
David, urged by his father, who still publicly ignored the young Douglas, persuaded him to write to his father now that there could be no longer any danger of pursuit, and the messenger Sir Patrick was sending to the King would afford the last opportunity. George growled and groaned a good deal, but perhaps Father Romuald pressed the duty on him in confession, for in his great relief at his lady’s going off unplighted from London, he consented to indite, in the chamber Father Romuald shared with two of the Cardinal’s chaplains, in a crooked and crabbed calligraphy and language much more resembling Anglo-Saxon than modern English, a letter to the most high and mighty, the Yerl of Angus, ‘these presents.’
But when he was entreated to assume his right position in the troop, he refused. ‘Na, na, Davie,’ he said, ‘gin my father chooses to send me gear and following, ‘tis all very weel, but ‘tisna for the credit of Scotland nor of Angus that the Master should be ganging about like a land-louper, with a single laddie after him—still less that he should be beholden to the Drummonds.’
‘Ye would win to the speech of the lassie,’ suggested David, ‘gin that be what ye want!’
‘Na kenning me, she willna look at me. Wait till I do that which may gar her look at me,’ said the chivalrous youth.
He was not entirely without means, for the links of a gold chain which he had brought from home went a good way in exchange, and though he had spoken of being at his own charges, he had found himself compelled to live as one of the train of the princesses, who were treated as the guests first of the Duke of York, then of the Cardinal, who had given Sir Patrick a sum sufficient to defray all possible expenses as far as Bourges, besides having arranged for those of the journey with Suffolk whose rank had been raised to that of a Marquis, in honour of his activity as proxy for the King.
CHAPTER 6. THE PRICE OF A GOOSE
‘We would have all such offenders cut off, and we giveexpress charge that, in the marches through the country, there be nothing compelled from the villages.’
—King Henry V.
The Marquis of Suffolk’s was a slow progress both in England and abroad, with many halts both on account of weather and of feasts and festivals. Cardinal Beaufort had hurried the party away from London partly in order to make the match with Margaret of Anjou irrevocable, partly for the sake of removing Eleanor of Scotland, the only maiden who had ever produced the slightest impression on the monastic-minded Henry of Windsor.
When once out of London there were, however, numerous halts on the road,—two or three days of entertainment at every castle, and then a long delay at Canterbury to give time for Suffolk’s retainers, and all the heralds, pursuivants, and other adjuncts of pomp and splendour, to join them. They were the guests of Archbishop Stafford, one of the peace party, and a friend of Beaufort and Suffolk, so that their entertainment was costly and magnificent, as befitted the mediaeval notions of a high-born gentleman, Primate of all England. A great establishment for the chase was kept by almost all prelates as a necessity; and whenever the weather was favourable, hunting and hawking could be enjoyed by the princesses and their suite. Indeed Jean, if not in the saddle, was pretty certain to be visiting the hawks all the morning, or else playing at ball or some other sport with her cousins or some of the young gentlemen of Suffolk’s train, who were all devoted to her.
Lady Drummond found that to try to win her to quieter occupations was in vain. The girl would not even try to learn French from Father Romuald by reading, though she would pick up words and phrases by laughing and chattering with the young knights who chanced to know the language. But as by this time Dame Lilias had learnt that there were bounds that princely pride and instinct prevented from overpassing, she contented herself with seeing that there was fit attendance, either by her daughter Annis, Sir Patrick himself, or one or other of Lady Suffolk’s ladies.
To some degree Eleanor shared in her sister’s outdoor amusements, but she was far more disposed to exercise her mind than her body. After having pined in weariness for want of intellectual food, her opportunities were delightful to her. Not only did she read with Father Romuald with intense interest the copy of the bon Sire Jean Froissart in the original, which he borrowed from the Archbishop’s library, but she listened with great zest to the readings which the Lady of Suffolk extracted from her chaplains and unwilling pages while the ladies sat at work, for the Marchioness, a grandchild of Geoffrey Chaucer, had a strong taste for literature. Moreover, from one of the choir Eleanor obtained lessons on the lute, as well as her beloved harp, and was taught to train her voice, and sing from ‘pricke-song,’ so that she much enjoyed this period of her journey.
Nothing could be more courteous and punctilious than the Marquis of Suffolk to the two princesses, and indeed to every one of his own degree; but there was something of the parvenu about him, and, unlike the Duke of York or Archbishop Stafford, who were free, bright, and good-natured to the meanest persons, he was haughty and harsh to every one below the line of gentle blood, and in his own train he kept up a discipline, not too strict in itself, but galling in the manner in which it was enforced by those who imitated his example. By the time the suite was collected, Christmas and the festival of St. Thomas a Becket were so near that it would have been neglect of a popular saint to have left his shrine without keeping his day. And after the Epiphany, though the party did reach Dover in a day’s ride, a stormy period set in, putting crossing out of the question, and detaining the suite within the massive walls of the castle.
At last, on a brisk, windless day of frost, the crossing to Calais was effected, and there was another week of festivals spread by the hospitality of the Captain of Calais, where everything was as English as at Dover. When they again started on their journey, Suffolk severely insisted on the closest order, riding as travellers in a hostile country, where a misadventure might easily break the existing truce, although the territories of the Duke of Burgundy, through which their route chiefly lay, were far less unfavourable to the English than actual French countries; indeed, the Flemings were never willingly at war with the English, and some of the Burgundian nobles and knights had been on intimate terms with Suffolk. Still, he caused the heralds always to keep in advance, and allowed no stragglers behind the rearguard that came behind the long train of waggons loaded with much kitchen apparatus, and with splendid gifts for the bride and her family, as well as equipments for the wedding-party, and tents for such of the troop as could not find shelter in the hostels or monasteries where the slowly-moving party halted for the night. It was unsafe to go on after the brief hours of daylight, especially in the neighbourhood of the Forest of Ardennes, for wolves might be near on the winter nights. It was thus that the first trouble arose with Sir Patrick Drummond’s two volunteer followers. Ringan Raefoot had become in his progress a very different looking being from the wild creature who had come with ‘Geordie of the Red Peel,’ but there was the same heart in him. He had endured obedience to the Knight of Glenuskie as a Scot, and with the Duke of York and through England the discipline of the troop had not been severe; but Suffolk, though a courtly, chivalrous gentleman to his equals, had not the qualities of popularity, and chafed his inferiors.
There were signs of confusion in the cavalcade as they passed between some of the fertile fields of Namur, and while Suffolk was halting and about to send a squire to the rear to interfere, a couple of his retainers hurried up, saying, ‘My Lord, those Scottish thieves will bring the whole country down on us if order be not taken with them.’
Sir Patrick did not need the end of the speech to gallop off at full speed to the rear of all the waggons, where a crowd might be seen, and there was a perfect Babel of tongues, rising in only too intelligible shouts of rage. Swords and lances were flashing on one side among the horsemen, on the other stones were flying from an ever-increasing number of leather-jerkined men and boys, some of them with long knives, axes, and scythes.
George Douglas’s high head seemed to be the main object of attack, and he had Ringan Raefoot before him across his horse, apparently retreating, while David, Malcolm, and a few more made charges on the crowd to guard him. When he was seen, there was a cry of which he could distinguish nothing but ‘Ringan! Geordie! goose—Flemish hounds.’
Riding between, regardless of the stones, he shouted in the Burgundian French he had learnt in his campaigns, to demand the cause of the attack. The stones ceased, and the head man of the village, a stout peasant, came forward and complained that the varlet, as he called Ringan, had been stealing the village geese on their pond, and when they were about to do justice on him, yonder man-at-arms had burst in, knocked down and hurt several, and carried him off.
Before there had been time for further explanation, to Sir Patrick’s great vexation, the Marshal of the troop and his guard came up, and the complaint was repeated. George, at the same time, having handed Ringan over to some others of the Scots, rode up with his head very high.
‘Sir Patrick Drummond,’ said the Marshal stiffly, ‘you know my Lord’s rules for his followers, as to committing outrages on the villeins of the country.’
‘We are none of my Lord of Suffolk’s following,’ began Douglas; but Sir Patrick, determined to avoid a breach if possible, said—
‘Sir Marshal, we have as yet heard but one side of the matter. If wrong have been done to these folk, we are ready to offer compensation, but we should hear how it has been—’
‘Am I to see my poor laddie torn to bits, stoned, and hanged by these savage loons,’ cried George, ‘for a goose’s egg and an old gander?’
Of course his defence was incomprehensible to the Flemings, but on their side a man with a bound-up head and another limping were produced, and the head man spoke of more serious damage to others who could not appear, demanding both the aggressors to be dealt with, i.e. to be hanged on the next tree.
‘These men are of mine, Master Marshal,’ said Sir Patrick.
‘My Lord can permit no violence by those under his banner,’ said the Marshal stiffly. ‘I must answer it to him.’
‘Do so then,’ said Sir Patrick. ‘This is a matter for him.’
The Marshal, who had much rather have disposed of the Scottish thieves on his own responsibility, was forced to give way so far as to let the appeal be carried to the Marquis of Suffolk, telling the Flemings, in something as near their language as he could accomplish, that his Lord was sure to see justice done, and that they should follow and make their complaint.
Suffolk sat on his horse, tall, upright, and angry. ‘What is this I hear, Sir Patrick Drummond,’ said he, ‘that your miscreants of wild Scots have been thieving from the peaceful peasant-folk, and then beating them and murdering them? I deemed you were a better man than to stand by such deeds and not give up the fellows to justice.’
‘It were shame to hang a man for one goose,’ said Sir Patrick.
‘All plunder is worthy of death,’ returned the Englishman. ‘Your Border law may be otherwise, but ‘tis not our English rule of honest men. And here’s this other great lurdane knave been striking the poor rogues down right and left! A halter fits both.’
‘My Lord, they are no subjects of England. I deny your rights over them.’
‘Whoever rides in my train is under me, I would have you to know, sir.’
‘Hark ye, my Lord of Suffolk,’ said Sir Patrick, coming near enough to speak in an undertone, ‘that lurdane, as you call him, is heir of a noble house in Scotland, come here on a young man’s freak of chivalry. You will do no service to the peace of the realms if you give him up to these churls, for making in to save his servant.’
Before Sir Patrick had done speaking, while Suffolk was frowning grimly in perplexity, a wild figure, with blood on the face, rushed forth with a limping run, crying ‘Let the loons hang me and welcome, if they set such store by their lean old gander, but they shanna lay a finger on the Master.’
And he had nearly precipitated himself into the hands of the sturdy rustics, who shouted with exultation, but with two strides Geordie caught him up. ‘Peace, Ringan! They shall no more hang thee than me,’ and he stood with one hand on Ringan’s shoulder and his sword in the other, looking defiant.
‘If he be a young gentleman masking, I am not bound to know it,’ said Suffolk impatiently to Drummond; ‘but if he will give up that rascal, and make compensation, I will overlook it.’
‘Who touches my fellow does so at his peril,’ shouted George, menacing with his sword.
‘Peace, young man!’ said Sir Patrick. ‘Look here, my Lord of Suffolk, we Scots are none of your men. We need no favour of you English with our allies. There be enough of us to make our way through these peasants to the French border, so unless you let us settle the matter with a few crowns to these rascallions, we part company.’
‘The ladies were entrusted to my charge,’ began Lord Suffolk.
At that instant, however, both Jean and Eleanor came on the scene, riding fast, having in truth been summoned by Malcolm, who shrewdly suspected that thus an outbreak might be best averted.
It was Eleanor who spoke first. In spite of all her shyness, when her blood was up, she was all the princess.
What is this, my Lord of Suffolk?’ she said. ‘If one of our following have transgressed, it is the part of ourselves and of Sir Patrick Drummond to see to it, as representing the King my brother.’
‘Lady,’ replied Suffolk, bowing low and doffing his cap, ‘yonder ill-nurtured knave hath been robbing the country-folk, and the—the man-at-arms there not only refuses to give him up to justice, but has hurt, well-nigh slain, some of them in violently taking him from them. They ride in my train and I am responsible.’
Jean broke in: ‘He only served the cowardly loons right. A whole crowd of the rogues to hang one poor laddie for one goose! Shame on a gentleman for hearkening to the foul-mouthed villains one moment. Come here, Ringan. King Jamie’s sister will never see them harm thee.’
Perhaps Suffolk was not sorry to see a way out of the perplexity. ‘Far be it from a knight to refuse a boon to a fair lady in her selle, farther still to two royal damsels. The lives are granted, so satisfaction in coin be made to yon clamorous hinds.’
‘I do not call it a boon but a right, said Eleanor gravely; ‘nevertheless I thank you, my Lord Marquis.’
George would have thrown himself at their feet, but Jean coldly said, ‘Spare thanks, sir. It was for my brother’s right,’ and she turned her horse away, and rode off at speed, while Eleanor could not help pausing to say, ‘She is more blithe than she lists to own! Sir Patrick, what the fellows claim must come from my uncle’s travelling purse.’
George’s face was red. This was very bitter to him, but he could only say, ‘It shall be repaid so soon as I have the power.’
The peasants meanwhile were trying to make the best bargain they could by representing that they were tenants of an abbey, so that the death of the gander was sacrilegious on that account as well as because it was in Lent. To this, however, Sir Patrick turned a deaf ear: he threw them a couple of gold pieces, with which, as he told them, they were much better off than with either the live goose or the dead Ringan.
Suffolk had halted for the mid-day rest and was waiting for him till this matter was disposed of. ‘Sir Patrick Drummond,’ he said with some ceremony, ‘this company of yours may be Scottish subjects, but while they are riding with me I am answerable for them. It may be the wont in Scotland, but it is not with us English, to let unnamed adventurers ride under our banner.’
‘The young man is not unnamed,’ said Sir Patrick, on his mettle.
‘You know him?’
‘I’ll no say, but I have an inkling. My son David kenn’d him and answered for him when he joined himself to my following; nor has he hitherto done aught to discredit himself.’
‘What is his name, or the name he goes by?’
‘George Douglas.’
‘H’m! Your Scottish names may belong to any one, from your earls down to your herdboys; and they, forsooth, are as like as not to call themselves gentlemen.’
‘And wherefore not, if theirs is gentle blood?’ said Sir Patrick.
‘Nay, now, Sir Patrick, stand not on your Scotch pride. Gentlemen all, if you will, but you gave me to understand that this was none of your barefoot gentlemen, and I ask if you can tell who he truly is?’
‘I have never been told, my Lord, and I had rather you put the question to himself than to me.’
‘Call him then, an’ so please you.’
Sir Patrick saw no alternative save compliance; and he found Ringan undergoing a severe rating, not unaccompanied by blows from the wood of his master’s lance. The perfect willingness to die for one another was a mere natural incident, but the having transgressed, and caused such a serious scrape, made George very indignant and inflict condign punishment. ‘Better fed than he had ever been in his life, the rogue’ (and he looked it, though he muttered, ‘A bannock and a sup of barley brose were worth the haill of their greasy beeves!’). ‘Better fed than ever before. Couldn’t the daft loon keep the hands of him off poor folks’ bit goose? In Lent, too!’ (by far the gravest part of the offence).
George did, however, transfer Ringan’s explanation to Sir Patrick, and make some apology. A nest of goose eggs apparently unowned had been too much for him, incited further by a couple of English horseboys, who were willing to share goose eggs for supper, and let the Scotsman bear the wyte of it. The goose had been nearer than expected, and summoned her kin; the gander had shown fight; the geese had gabbled, the gooseherd and his kind came to the rescue, the horseboys had made off; Ringan, impeded by his struggle with the ferocious gander, was caught; and Geordie had come up just in time to see him pricked with goads and axes to a tree, where a halter was making ready for him. Of course, without asking questions, George hurried to save him, pushing his horse among the angry crew, and striking right and left, and equally of course the other Scots came to his assistance.
Sir Patrick agreed that he could not have done otherwise, though better things might have been hoped of Ringan by this time.
‘But,’ said he, ‘there’s not an end yet of the coil. Here has my Lord of Suffolk been speiring after your name and quality, till I told him he must ask at you and not at me.’
‘Tell’d you the dour meddling Englishman my name?’ asked George.
‘I told him only what ye told me yerself. In that there was no lie. But bethink you, royal maidens dinna come to speak for lads without a cause.’
George’s colour mounted high in his sunburnt, freckled cheek.
‘Kens—ken they, trow ye, Sir Pate?’
‘Cannie folk, even lassies, can ken mair than they always tell,’ said the knight of Glenuskie. ‘Yonder is my Lord Marquis, as they ca’ him; so bethink you weel how you comport yerself with him, and my counsel is to tell him the full truth. He is a dour man towards underlings, whom he views as made not of the same flesh and blood with himself, but he is the very pink of courtesy to men of his own degree.’
‘Set him up,’ quoth the heir of the Douglas, with a snort. ‘His own degree, indeed! scarce even a knight’s son!’
‘What he deems his own degree, then,’ corrected Sir Patrick; ‘but he holds himself full of chivalry to them, and loves a spice of the errant knight; ye may trust his honour. And mind ye,’ he added, laughing, ‘I’ve never been told your name and quality.’
Which the Master of Angus returned with an equally canny laugh. The young man, as he approached the Marquis, drew his head up, straightened his tall form, brushed off the dust that obscured the bloody heart on his breast, and altogether advanced with a step and bearing far more like the great Earl’s son than the man-at-arms of the Glenuskie following; his eyes bespoke equality or more as they met those of William de la Pole, and yet there was that in the glance which forbade the idea of insolence, so that Suffolk, instead of remaining seated rose to meet him and took him aside, standing as they talked.
‘Sir Squire,’ he said, ‘for such I understand your degree in chivalry to be.’
‘I have not won my spurs,’ said George.
‘It is not our rule to take to foreign courts gentlemen from another realm unknown to us,’ proceeded Suffolk, with much civility; ‘therefore, unless any vow of chivalry binds you, I should be glad to know who it is who does my banner the honour of riding in its company for a time. If a secret, it is safe with me.’
George gave his name.
‘That is the name of one of the chief nobles in Scotland,’ said Suffolk. ‘Do I see before me his son?’ George bowed.
‘Then, my Lord Douglas, am I permitted to ask wherefore this mean disguise? Is it for some vow of chivalry, or for that which is the guerdon of chivalry?’ the Marquis added in a lower, softer tone, which, however, extremely chafed the proud young Scot, all the more that he felt himself blushing.
‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘I am not bound to render a reason to any save my father, from whom I hope for letters shortly.’
To his further provocation Suffolk smiled meaningly, and answered—
‘I understand. But if my Lord Douglas would honour my suite by assuming the place that befits him, I should be happy that aught of mine should serve—’
‘I am beholden to you, my Lord, for the offer,’ replied George, somewhat roughly. ‘Whatever I make use of must be my father’s or my own. All I crave of you is to keep my secret, and not make me the common talk. Have I your licence to depart?’
Wherewith, tall, irate, and shamefaced, the Master of Angus stalked away to meet David Drummond, to whom he confided his disgusts.