He was out of spirits. The sight and speech of so many of
his countrymen had increased the longing for home.
"I loathe the mincing French and the fat Flemish tongues," he owned,
when Master Lambert was out of hearing. "I should feel at home if I
could but hear an honest carter shout 'Woa' to his horses."
"Did you have any speech with the ladies?" asked Grisell.
"I? No! What reck they of a poor knight adventurer?"
"Methought all the chivalry were peers, and that a belted knight was
a comrade for a king," said Grisell.
"Ay, in the days of the Round Table; but when Dukes and Counts, and
great Marquesses and Barons swarm like mayflies by a trout stream,
what chance is there that a poor, landless exile will have a word or
a glance?"
Did this mean that the fair Eleanor had scorned him? Grisell longed
to know, but for that very reason she faltered when about to ask, and
turned her query into one whether he had heard any news of his
English relations.
"My good uncle at Wearmouth hath been dead these four years--so far
as I can gather. Amply must he have supplied Master Groot. I must
account with him. For mine inheritance I can gather nothing clearly.
I fancy the truth is that George Copeland, who holds it, is little
better than a reiver on either side, and that King Edward might grant
it back to me if I paid my homage, save that he is sworn never to
pardon any who had a share in the death of his brother of Rutland.
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