FullReads

My lady was courted by many a fine lord, and more than three youngsters have I seen weep because of her coldness towards them; speeding them away out o’ the sight o’ mankind (as they thought), and casting themselves along the lush grass in my lady’s garden, there to bleat and bleat, like moon-calves for the moon.

For one lad did my heart bleed, verily. ‘Twas for the young Lord of Mallow–but a lad with buttercup curls and speedwell eyes, and a smile to win the love o’ any maid in her reason (though, to be sure, my lady was in her reason). He comes to me and gets between my knees, like any little eanling that might ‘a’ been mine own, and quoth he:

“Butter, Butter, she loves thee! Wilt thou not speak to her, and tell her that she shall be the richest lady in all England, and maid of honor to the Queen, and have more jewels than the Queen herself? Oh, Butter!” cried he.

Then said I, a-stroking of the yellow gossamer that bestrewed his shoulders, as he knelt, head bowed, between my knees, “Nay, my lord, ’tis not so that thou shalt win the Lady Margaret. She careth no more for jewels than she doth for the beads in a rainbow; nor doth she care for riches. And methinks a maid who would marry just to be maid of honor to a queen would not be an honorable maid either to herself or to her sovereign;” for so indeed I thought.

Then saith he, “Butter, dost thou believe in love-philters?”

And I asked his meaning, for verily I was ignorant of ‘t, albeit I was not ignorant in all matters. And he explained to me that it was a drink or potion to cause love.

Then I answered, and said, “Calamint doth make a good brew, likewise sage, and some flax is soothing, but methinks none o’ these would cause love.”

On this he wept again, but said that I was a good old man, and that on his return to Mallow he would send me a gift; and so he did–a pair o’ silk hose, such as my lady and the Queen do wear; but being mindful of my station, I laid them aside for the sake o’ th’ poor lad, and yesterday Marian did bring them to me, with her ten fingers through as many moth-holes. Whereupon I was minded o’ th’ text concerning that we lay not up treasures where moth and rust do corrupt, and at my behest Marian read me the whole of that chapter. But to return to bare facts.

It was on a certain night in March that there occurred the conversation which was the cause of this narrative. There had been news of the return of one Lord Denbeigh to Warwickshire–by report as wild a cavalier as ever fought, and a godless body to boot. Marian, who, as I have said, had always a certain knack for ghost stories and the like, froze me with her accounts o’ this wild lord’s doings. Quoth she:

“Fire-brace is a suiting name for him, inasmuch as ’tis a family name, and he a fire-brand to peace wheresome’er he shall go.”

“Peace–peace thyself!” quoth I, hearing my lady’s foot along the hall. And, o’ my word, Marian had but just ceased, and given her attention to the fire, when in clatters my lady, with her riding-whip stuck in her glove, and her blood-hound Hearn in a leash. She was much wrought, either with riding or rage, for there was a quick red in her cheek, and she had set her red lips until they were white. Then took she the hound between her knees, and plucked off her gloves. Here I did find it my duty to speak.

“My lady,” cried I, “’tis not in your mind to baste the dog?”

“Ay, that it is,” quoth she, and her lips went tighter, and she jerked at her glove.