The priest read the Office of the Mass to the village folk in the
village church.
Sir Gilbert knelt in his great pew, staring all about him, cracking
walnuts between his strong white teeth and spitting the shells out on
to the pavement. Now and then he stroked other fragments from his grey
beard with his thick and dirty hand and coughed huskily to clear his
throat.
At the bench behind the pew knelt his squire, Philip of Gisburn.
Philip was handsomely arrayed for the Holy Day in a rich green cloak
embroidered with white and yellow daisies, in a doublet of purple
velvet, scarlet hose and pyked shoes. His golden hair hung about his
shoulders in thick locks, his complexion was white and red like a
girl’s, his features delicately moulded, his eyes grey as glass, his
eyebrows curved like a bow, his nose straight and small, his mouth firm
and red. When he was asleep he might have been mistaken for a maid or
an angel (God and wise men alone can tell the difference between these
twain).
Four old men were dozing on their knees behind him. Upon his left a
dozen old women ceaselessly cackled scandal, occasionally interrupting
with their smothered, raucous laughter the voice of the priest. Philip
glanced towards the little group of impious females. A moist black
eye peered laughingly at him from beneath a bright yellow head-dress.
Alice, the Franklin’s daughter, was sitting at the end of her bench,
across the aisle, upon the fringe of the group of withered gossips. She
was without doubt a bonny creature, with eyes like sloes, lips like
cherries, cheeks like peach blossom, and all else as one might wish.
Philip returned her gaze with a roguish stare and then winked his left
eye. The girl repressed laughter upon her lips and instantly dropped
her eyes in devotion. After a while she raised her head again; her eyes
shone and a blush overspread her face; she winked her right eye like
lightning and dropped her head again.
For five minutes Philip steadily regarded her through his fingers. She
slowly looked up again and glanced half timidly and half impudently
toward him. He met her eyes with a full gaze of meaning, pursed his
lips together, and softly kissed the air towards her. She blushed
crimson, but returned his salutation in a manner precisely similar.
‘_Deo Gratias_’ cried the priest. The Ordinary of the Holy Sacrament
was at an end.
* * * * *
As Sir Gilbert and Philip rode homeward up the hill together they fell
to talking.
‘Who was that bonny wench with the big black eyes?’ asked Sir Gilbert.
‘Marry, sir, I counted a good half-dozen black-eyed wenches in church.’
‘I don’t doubt it, my good Philip; thy devotion was early on women
rather than on Holy Church. But I mean the wench with black eyes and
raven hair, and dressed in a right comely, yellow kirtle.’
‘Marry, sir, I was that occupied with the matter of my devotions that I
did not mark her.’
‘My good Philip, thou art lying. The girl, who sat opposite thee,
across the aisle?’
‘Ah, now I know whom thou meanest. The girl is Alice, the Franklin’s
daughter.’
‘What, the daughter of the rich Franklin? By the Virgin, but a fair
wench, as pretty a piece of woman’s flesh as I have seen in France or
yet in Italy.’
Sir Gilbert thoughtfully stroked his beard. ‘After all,’ he said,
‘England breeds the best horses and the bonniest women.’