Free Georgette Heyer by My Lord John Page B

no older than Harry, and a princess of France to boot, was another unexplained mystery.
    Hard upon the heels of Father’s departure Sir Hugh Waterton came to Leicester to take the younger children into his charge. He and his cousin, Sir Robert, were both knights in Bel sire’s retinue; he had a young son of his own, and was a good, plain man, devoted to Lancaster. Mary Hervey remained with the little girls as lady-mistress, and the whole party left Leicester within twenty-four hours of Sir Hugh’s arrival.
    The lordings were fond of their sisters, but it was Humfrey’s away-going which they felt the most. He was only four years old, but so forward that not even Thomas despised his company. He had a ready tongue, and so much charm that no matter what he did he was always forgiven. ‘Soon ripe, soon rotten!’ said Bel sire, who did not like him.
    It was quiet at Leicester after that; but the tedium was enlivened by a visit from Master Chaucer, who was travelling north on one of the state errands with which he was sometimes entrusted. He stayed only for a night, but left behind him a legacy in the form of a poem about one Sir Thopas. The lordings drank in Sir Thopas, and clamoured for more. Their confessor said that if they would con their catechisms as readily as they committed a lewd poem to memory he would be the better pleased. Father Joseph did not share the lordings’ enthusiasm for giants or elf-queens, and after having had his chaste ears assailed for days with snatches of Master Chaucer’s knavish rhymes he said that it would be the worse for anyone who was again heard to utter ‘He had a seemly nose,’ or ‘the giant shall be dead, Betide what will betide!’
    In the autumn M. de Guyenne was in England again. Hardly had they heard the tidings than he arrived at Leicester, bringing in his train a scrivenish-looking foreigner whom he had found disconsolately following the Court from place to place. He told his grandsons that this was an old friend, a notable scholar, and a Canon of Chimay: one who could tell them better tales than Master Chaucer had ever imagined. They were not at first hopeful. A notable scholar, with white hair and a grey gown did not promise much in the way of entertainment, besides, he spoke English as one long unaccustomed; and although they could all of them speak the language of Oil they much preferred their birth-tongue.
    But Bel sire was right: the Canon of Chimay, whom Bel sire called Messire de Froissart, had such tales to tell as held them spellbound, seated on the floor at his feet, hugging their knees, and holding their breath for fear Bel sire should suddenly say that they should all of them be in bed.
    He was a Hainaulter, and many years ago he had been Great-grandmother Philippa’s secretary. He had known Great-uncle Edward, the Black Prince of glorious memory; and he had visited the French hero, Gaston de Foix, at Orthez. The lordings nodded wisely, for Edward of Rutland had told them that Gaston Phoebus had been the greatest hunter in Christendom. All the stories that old Wilkin told Messire de Froissart could tell better; and their transcendent merit was that they were true.
    M. de Guyenne leaned back in his chair, looking down the years, sometimes smiling at the light in Harry’s eyes, sometimes interpolating a word that conjured up new memories.
    Messire de Froissart had not visited England for seven-and-twenty years. He said: ‘I thought if I could but see this land again I should live the longer.’ He paused, and then added: ‘The faces are all new to me. My heart has been filled with a great sadness and longing.’
    Bel sire said nothing. After a silence Messire de Froissart sighed, and said: ‘I remember that I journeyed to Guyenne in the train of your brother the Lord Edward, whose soul God pardon! I remember when you, monseigneur, set forth on a great riding through France.’
    ‘Ah, the old days!’ Bel sire said.
    ‘Of those who fought at Poitiers, how many