In one of these chairs sat a gracious lady, who was embroidering something silken in a frame.  This was Queen Philippa, and talking to her stood the tall King, clad in a velvet robe lined with fur.  Behind, seated at a little table on which lay parchments, was a man in a priest’s robe, writing.  There was no one else in the room.

Hugh and Dick advanced to the foot of the dais, and stood there bowing.

“Who are these?” asked the King of the Prince.  “Oh, I remember, the man who overthrew Sir Ambrose and said he had a message!”

“Ay, Sire,” answered the Prince; “and this dust-coloured fellow is his servant, who will not part with his bow, which he calls his wife and says he sleeps with.”

“I would all Englishmen did the same,” broke in the King.  “Say, man, can you shoot straight?”

“I know not, Sire,” replied Grey Dick, “but perhaps straighter than most, for God, Who withheld all else from me, gave me this gift.  At least, if I be not made drunk overnight, I’ll match myself against any man at this Court, noble or simple, and stake twenty angels on it.”

“Twenty angels!  Have you so much, fellow?”

“Nay, Sire, nor more than one; but as I know I shall win, what does that matter?”

“Son,” said the King, “see that this man is kept sober to-night, and to-morrow we will have a shooting match.  But, sirrah, if you prove yourself to be a boaster you shall be whipped round the walls, for I love not tall words and small deeds.  And now, young Master de Cressi, what is this message of yours?”

Hugh thrust his hand into his bosom, and produced a sealed packet which was addressed to “His Grace King Edward of England, sent from Andrew Arnold, priest, by the hand of Hugh de Cressi.”

“Can you read?” the King asked of Hugh when he had spelt out this superscription.

“Ay, Sire; at least if the writing be that of Sir Andrew Arnold, for he was my master.”

“A learned one and a brave, Hugh de Cressi.  Well, break seal; we listen.”

Hugh obeyed, and read as follows: 

“Your Grace: 

“Mayhap, Sire, you will remember me, Andrew Arnold, late master of the Templars in this town of Dunwich, in whose house, by your warrant for certain services rendered to your grandsire, your sire, and to yourself, I still dwell on as a priest ordained.  Sire, the bearer of this, Hugh de Cressi, my godchild, is the son of Geoffrey de Cressi, of this town, the great wool-merchant, with whom your Highness has had dealings——­”

“In truth I have!” interrupted the King, with a laugh.  “Also I think the account is still open—­against myself.  Well, it shall be paid some day, when I have conquered France.  Forward!”

“Sire, this Hugh is enamoured of Eve Clavering, daughter of Sir John Clavering of Blythburgh, a cousin of his House, a very beauteous maiden, commonly known as Red Eve, and she in turn is enamoured of and betrothed to him——­”