“Nought but weep and pray!” said Agnes.  “And yet I can bear it better now that you are here.  Your presence refutes the worst accusation, and removes a heavy weight from my mind.”

“You distrust him too!  I cannot love you if you do.”

“Never, never!  I only feared some evil had befallen you, and grieved to see the use made of your absence.  Your coming should make my heart light again.”

“Shall I often see you, Cousin Agnes? for there is none else in this wide Castle that I shall care for.”

“Oh yes, Arthur, there are full twenty pages little older than yourself—­Lord Thomas Holland, the Prince’s stepson, brother to the lady that led you to me; little Piers de Greilly, nephew to the Captal de Buch; young Lord Henry of Lancaster; and the little Prince Edward himself.  You will have no lack of merry playmates.”

“Ah, but to whom can I talk of my blessed mother and of Uncle Eustace, and of Lynwood Keep, and poor old Blanc Etoile, that I promised Ralph I would bear in mind?”

“Well, Arthur,” said Agnes, cheerfully, “it is the pages’ duty to wait on the ladies in hall and bower, and the ladies’ office to teach them all courtly manners, and hear them read and say the Credo and Ave.  You shall be my own especial page and servant.  Is it agreed?”

“Oh yes,” said the boy.  “I wonder if the master of the Damoiseaux is as strict as that lady said, and I wonder when I shall see Uncle Eustace again.”

CHAPTER XI

If Arthur Lynwood felt desolate when he left his uncle’s side, it was not otherwise with Sir Eustace as he lost sight of the child, who had so long been his charge, and who repaid his anxiety with such confiding affection.  The coveted fame, favour, and distinction seemed likewise to have deserted him.  The Prince’s coldness hung heavily on him, and as he cast his eyes along the ranks of familiar faces, not one friendly look cheered him.  His greetings were returned with coldness, and a grave haughty courtesy was the sole welcome.  Chafed and mortified, he made a sign to Gaston, and they were soon in the street once more.

“Coward clown!” burst forth Gaston at once.  “Would that I could send all his grinning teeth down the false throat of him!”

“Whose?  What mean you?”

“Whose but that sulky recreant, Ashton?  He has done well to obtain knighthood, or I would beat him within an inch of his life with my halbert, and if he dared challenge me, slay him as I would a carrion crown!  He a Knight!  Thanks to his acres and to Lord Pembroke!”

“Patience, patience, Gaston—­I have not yet heard of what he accuses me.”

“No! he has learnt policy—­he saith it not openly!  He would deny it, as did his Esquire when I taxed him with it!  Would that you could not tell a letter!  Sir Eustace, of your favour let me burn every one of your vile books.”