his empty glass and swaggered out into the courtyard the lay brother turned from the fire with a skillet in his hand. “A pity Sir Mars does not bring reports back again about what's going on in the Tower,” he said, voicing the uneasiness of all.
But uneasiness and curiosity were drowned in laughter as a shock-headed swineherd drove in an unwilling pig for sale, and the Benedictine monk, after poking its lean ribs, sent him out again. During the scuttling and the merriment Elizabeth edged her way farther along behind the fast emptying bench. It was no good standing still like a frightened hen, or being shocked by the way the servants really spoke. She noticed an honest-looking farmer selling Father Ambrose a fat goose while his two boys waited with a basket of more delicious plums than ever reached her mother's table. “I will go out with them ,” she decided, settling the unaccustomed belt more snugly about her slender hips and looking for somewhere to set down her mug.
But before she could reach the table to join them the sunlight was momentarily blocked from the open doorway and the swineherd came running back again. He ran so fast and so blindly that he cannoned into the lay brother, who was in the act of tasting the steaming contents of the skillet with a long-handled spoon. “The Devil take you!” yelled the poor man, as drops of boiling liquid slopped over his sandalled feet.
The lad did not even apologize. “Have you heard?” he panted.
“Heard what, you clumsy numbskull?” growled the enraged Benedictine, sinking back on to a stool to hold his scalded toes.
“What they are saying all along the strand.”
“The strand is always buzzing with some silly tale or other.”
“People with nothing to do but hang about for fares have time to invent them,” scoffed a second lay brother, coming in hot from the hard labour of kneading the day's dough.
In spite of so discouraging a reception, the country lad stood his ground in the midst of them all. “'Tis about the two Princes,” he said, still too excited and short of breath to elaborate.
Cooks and scullions turned from their tasks, and the breakfasting servants ceased chewing with bread still bulging their cheeks. Involuntarily every man stopped to listen, for what was happening to the late King's sons was the subject upon which the ears of all London hung.
“Well, what about the Princes?” asked the monk in charge, grudgingly, thereby lending the uncouth newsmonger the prestige of his notice.
“They've been murdered.”
The stark words, roughened by a rural burr, seemed to drop into the expectant stillness as separately as hard stones. Their harsh impact created a horrified hush, followed by a babel of questions.
“Where?”
“Who says so?”
“How do you know?”
In the general hubbub no one noticed a fair-haired lad stagger against the table, or a mug half full of ale clatter to the stone floor.
“Seems some sailors had it from Will Slaughter's doxie. They be all round her on the water-stairs now.”
“And who is this Will Slaughter?”
“He looks after them, she says.”
“'She says'!” scoffed Brother Ambrose, closing his account-book with a bang. “It is always someone else who says. And is this—loose-living person with so sinister a name supposed to be the murderer?”
The tale-bearer, not having thought so far, could only scratch his tousled head.
“It seems scarcely likely, Brother Ambrose,” pointed out the cook with the scalded toes, forgetting his pain. “Or he would have been the last to start the news.”
“Then who is supposed to have done this dastardly thing?” demanded the Surrey farmer, his gaze upon his own two sons and the Abbot's money lying forgotten in his gnarled hand.
For a moment it seemed as if some powerful presence they all feared were holding men's tongues dumb. Some of them glanced apprehensively over their shoulders in the direction of the Palace buildings.
But uneasiness and curiosity were drowned in laughter as a shock-headed swineherd drove in an unwilling pig for sale, and the Benedictine monk, after poking its lean ribs, sent him out again. During the scuttling and the merriment Elizabeth edged her way farther along behind the fast emptying bench. It was no good standing still like a frightened hen, or being shocked by the way the servants really spoke. She noticed an honest-looking farmer selling Father Ambrose a fat goose while his two boys waited with a basket of more delicious plums than ever reached her mother's table. “I will go out with them ,” she decided, settling the unaccustomed belt more snugly about her slender hips and looking for somewhere to set down her mug.
But before she could reach the table to join them the sunlight was momentarily blocked from the open doorway and the swineherd came running back again. He ran so fast and so blindly that he cannoned into the lay brother, who was in the act of tasting the steaming contents of the skillet with a long-handled spoon. “The Devil take you!” yelled the poor man, as drops of boiling liquid slopped over his sandalled feet.
The lad did not even apologize. “Have you heard?” he panted.
“Heard what, you clumsy numbskull?” growled the enraged Benedictine, sinking back on to a stool to hold his scalded toes.
“What they are saying all along the strand.”
“The strand is always buzzing with some silly tale or other.”
“People with nothing to do but hang about for fares have time to invent them,” scoffed a second lay brother, coming in hot from the hard labour of kneading the day's dough.
In spite of so discouraging a reception, the country lad stood his ground in the midst of them all. “'Tis about the two Princes,” he said, still too excited and short of breath to elaborate.
Cooks and scullions turned from their tasks, and the breakfasting servants ceased chewing with bread still bulging their cheeks. Involuntarily every man stopped to listen, for what was happening to the late King's sons was the subject upon which the ears of all London hung.
“Well, what about the Princes?” asked the monk in charge, grudgingly, thereby lending the uncouth newsmonger the prestige of his notice.
“They've been murdered.”
The stark words, roughened by a rural burr, seemed to drop into the expectant stillness as separately as hard stones. Their harsh impact created a horrified hush, followed by a babel of questions.
“Where?”
“Who says so?”
“How do you know?”
In the general hubbub no one noticed a fair-haired lad stagger against the table, or a mug half full of ale clatter to the stone floor.
“Seems some sailors had it from Will Slaughter's doxie. They be all round her on the water-stairs now.”
“And who is this Will Slaughter?”
“He looks after them, she says.”
“'She says'!” scoffed Brother Ambrose, closing his account-book with a bang. “It is always someone else who says. And is this—loose-living person with so sinister a name supposed to be the murderer?”
The tale-bearer, not having thought so far, could only scratch his tousled head.
“It seems scarcely likely, Brother Ambrose,” pointed out the cook with the scalded toes, forgetting his pain. “Or he would have been the last to start the news.”
“Then who is supposed to have done this dastardly thing?” demanded the Surrey farmer, his gaze upon his own two sons and the Abbot's money lying forgotten in his gnarled hand.
For a moment it seemed as if some powerful presence they all feared were holding men's tongues dumb. Some of them glanced apprehensively over their shoulders in the direction of the Palace buildings.
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