“Of that ill word, this, Hugh:  I have a new suitor up yonder, a fine French suitor, a very great lord indeed, whose wealth, I am told, none can number.  From his mother he has the Valley of the Waveney up to Bungay town—­ay, and beyond—­and from his father, a whole county in Normandy.  Five French knights ride behind his banner, and with them ten squires and I know not how many men-at-arms.  There is feasting yonder at the manor, I can tell you.  Ere his train leaves us our winter provender will be done, and we’ll have to drink small beer till the wine ships come from France in spring.”

“And what is this lord’s name?”

“God’s truth, he has several,” she answered.  “Sir Edmund Acour in England, and in France the high and puissant Count of Noyon, and in Italy, near to the city of Venice—­for there, too, he has possessions which came to him through his grandmother—­the Seigneur of Cattrina.”

“And having so much, does he want you, too, as I have heard, Eve?  And if so, why?”

“So he swears,” she answered slowly; “and as for the reason, why, I suppose you must seek it in my face, which by ill-fortune has pleased his lordship since first he saw it a month ago.  At the least he has asked me in marriage of my father, who jumped at him like a winter pike, and so I’m betrothed.”

“And do you want him, Eve?”

“Ay, I want him as far as the sun is from the moon or the world from either.  I want him in heaven or beneath the earth, or anywhere away from me.”

At these words a light shone in Hugh’s keen grey eyes.

“I’m glad of that, Eve, for I’ve been told much of this fine fellow—­amongst other things that he is a traitor come here to spy on England.  But should I be a match for him, man to man, Eve?” he asked after a little pause.

She looked him up and down; then answered: 

“I think so, though he is no weakling; but not for him and the five knights and the ten squires, and my noble father, and my brother, and the rest.  Oh, Hugh, Hugh!” she added bitterly, “cannot you understand that you are but a merchant’s lad, though your blood be as noble as any in this realm—­a merchant’s lad, the last of five brothers?  Why were you not born the first of them if you wished for Eve Clavering, for then your red gold might have bought me.”

“Ask that of those who begot me,” said Hugh.  “Come now, what’s in your mind?  You’re not one to be sold like a heifer at a faring and go whimpering to the altar, and I am not one to see you led there while I stand upon my feet.  We are made of a clay too stiff for a French lord’s fingers, Eve, though it is true that they may drag you whither you would not walk.”

“No,” she answered, “I think I shall take some marrying against my wish.  Moreover, I am Dunwich born.”

“What of that, Eve?”

“Go ask your godsire and my friend, Sir Andrew Arnold, the old priest.  In the library of the Temple there he showed me an ancient roll, a copy of the charter granted by John and other kings of England to the citizens of Dunwich.”