Marjorie Bowen

“ I would like to write tales well enough"—he waved a fair hand—"but differently. Come out into the fields; thou art so bemused with chant royal, couplet, 'rime couée,' thou canst not see there is a better poem than ever thou stained vellum with in that fresh hawthorn facing thee."
The older man smiled indulgently.
"Peace, for God His sake; you are young and vain."
The squire caught up the ebony box and tried to see his own fair face in the polished silver fittings.
"Attend to me, Jeffray." Master Humphrey held up the unfinished capital. ”

“ My beauty gives me no delight
⁠Good lack!
Nor pomp of ribible and clokardè
Of low dowcemere and bombardè
⁠Good lack!—"
"Ah!" interrupted Katherine Sywnford. "You mean to rhyme on misplaced love—"
She frowned dangerously.
Something about a king's son," answered Master Humphrey, "who had a dark face would have been in that song."
"By charity!" she cried; then she sighed. "A king's son!"
"The Duke's Grace of Lancaster is a son of kings." ”

“ She waved her hand and went on, followed by the bright liveries of Lancaster.
Master Humphrey smiled and drew in a figure of a lady with yellow hair the other side of the stem of the letter P.
Several people—priests, nuns, clerks, monks, and soldiers—went past the window, and presently came another lady who was of a very breath-taking beauty.
Master Humphrey, seeing her, bowed from the window; she was on foot and had three damsels with her.
"Mistress Sywnford," said the painter. "Your sister has just passed here."
She paused.
"Ay, the whole world goes to the field to-day. ”

“ Beside him was the Duchess Blanche, delicate with gold locks glimmering in a net; riding a white palfrey.
They talked together very lovingly.
After came knights and squires, pages and serving-men, among them Sir Otto Sywnford whittling a rose stick. ”