Shepherd had spoken truly. The powerful Baron de Leaufort had wedded the sister of the great French Count Henri de Harfleur. The match had been arranged solely by the efforts of the wily Legate, who had whispered of the charms and worldly goods of the Countess Flavie, in the hopes of further cementing the union between the Church and the English Baronage. The serfs might recover their reason and the Barons once again might look with envious eyes upon the Treasury of the Church. It would do no harm to wed de Leaufort to an ardent Catholic such as the Countess had long since proved herself to be.

This was the motive that brought the Cardinal Barsini to Ely Castle, but on seeing Rose Westel, he speedily discovered a new incentive to succeed in his mission. He went so far as to add a couple of thousand lires out of his own pocket to the dowry of the Countess when he saw that the Baron bit none too greedily at the bait. It never entered his mind that he could possibly fail to find favor in the eyes of Rose Westel, since he had not been accustomed to encounter opposition where he chose to distribute his favors. But from the instant that Rose caught sight of the smooth, complacent face of the Nuncio, and noted the quick leap in his eyes as they dwelt on her, it seemed as if an icy hand had suddenly clutched at her heart. Something told her that her happiness was at an end. And she had been so happy, ecstatically happy. She had grown to love de Leaufort with that kind of love which would have stayed with her had he not possessed a groat in the world. Gladly would she have followed him to the wars and endured any hardships so that she might remain by his side. There were times when she longed ardently that he might meet with reverses so she might prove to him how unselfish was her devotion; she feared that the very ease of her life cheapened her love for him in his eyes—made it more a matter of mere circumstance than it really was.

One day the Legate had graciously taken her into his confidence, and told her of his plans both for the future of the Baron and for herself. She had shrunk from him and fled to her lover, panting and weeping and raving and acting precisely as she would not have done had the terrible shock left one grain of reason in her head.

It was after this scene with her that the Legate had seen fit to increase the dowry of the Countess.

When the Baron returned with his bride, she was accompanied by a gay retinue, and the Castle was splendidly decorated in her honor with great streamers and banners thrown out from floor to floor, and the finest of tapestries and yards and yards of cloth of gold hung on the walls of the chambers. Watchers had been set in the highest tower so that the party might not arrive unannounced, and on the very first sign of their approach, the Baron's sister, accompanied by a party of guests, descended the terrace to greet them. At first but a tiny speck of color could be made out, creeping along the furthest line of poplars that fringed the river as it drowsily turned and twisted upon itself, a slender thread of sunlight far off in the distant fens. A woman, faint and sick with watching and weeping, peered from the slit in the tower, and fastened her eyes on that speck of color which broadened at every turn, and slowly resolved itself into many colors, and at last into the separate forms of people on horseback—so that she could distinguish one from the other, so that her restless, searching eyes could make out the Countess to be a frail-looking woman whose tight-fitting riding-habit revealed every line of her slender, elegant form. She was glad to see that her expressionless face was rendered yet more so by the foolish reigning fashion of plucking the hair from the eyebrows in order to heighten the forehead.

Far, far down at her feet, from below the drawbridge, a bit of blue flashed up at her. She shivered, for she knew it was the moat onto which her mother in her despair had flung herself from the lower parapet. The retinue came nearer, she could see that there were several chaplains and ladies in waiting among them, but no one was so noble looking as the Baron in a tight-fitting coat-hardy of crimson with green shoulder pieces, and wearing a beautiful crimson cap with a square top and a rosette of gold in the centre.

For some time after the arrival of the party, there was a great stir about the Castle, for the Countess had brought many gifts which had to be unpacked and arranged in their proper places. There were great oaken chests containing priestly vestments for the chaplains, of cloth of gold, of cerulean tissue embroidered all over with images of the Trinity and the Blessed Virgin, and an altar-cloth for the chapel, of white velvet embroidered with a representation of the Salutation of the Blessed Virgin, and also for the chapel a chalice, paten, censer, alms-dish, bowls, chandeliers, an exquisite vase for the holy water, a group of little silver bells for the Mass, everything of the very choicest and finest. Then there was a great bed-cover and curtains of Tripoli silk wrought with dragons in combat, the deep border embroidered with a vine pattern, the whole powdered with bezants of gold. And there were tapestries for two receiving rooms, of which one was embroidered with popinjays in worsted and the other with roses and other flowers in silks. Also the Countess brought a handsome salt-cellar of silver gilt with quaint carvings, and studded with rare jewels, for the great table, and there were gowns of scarlet and azure and purple velvets embroidered and powdered over with small pearls, and there were double cloaks, hoods, and mantles for riding, besides saddles for herself and her chamber-women, and her bridal dress, which required careful handling, for it was of great magnificence, of cloth of gold tissue, with a mantle and kirtle to correspond.

To do fitting honor to his bride, de Leaufort had long since made preparations on a vast scale for a great banquet, sparing no pains to make it the finest and rarest that had ever been held in those parts. It was well to do honor to his French bride, and also it was doubly well to give some notion to the King of his great resources, for there were times when even Kings had to be duly impressed with the power of their Barons; and it was well also for the insolent peasants, who were creating disturbances here and there, to be a bit overawed by a great show of wealth and state.

For some weeks in advance he had caused messages to be carried all over the land offering liberal pay to all the minstrels who would come to the Castle with their instruments, so that when all were finally gathered together there were over two hundred minstrels, with their harps, their psalteries, their rotes and rebecs, their gitternes, cymbals, and tabors.

The land was scoured for all possible delicacies; messengers were sent in hot haste to the coast to secure fresh fish and fetch it back on fast horses so that it would arrive untainted by the rays of the hot sun. Great pasties were made and filled with partridges and quails, with skylarks and thrushes; and there were jellies that quivered mountain-high in every possible hue; while stags, huge loins of beef, swans, peacocks, and capons were delivered at the door of the kitchen in an unending stream.

The Countess made herself exceedingly unpopular by insisting for some days after her arrival on partaking of her meals in private,—she with the Baron and her own party and the Legate and only one or two others in the private chamber, the solar of the Castle. She insisted upon it that the most refined of the aristocracy were doing away with the eating of dinners in the great Hall, which she considered extremely vulgar. To this whim of his bride de Leaufort gave way very reluctantly, for well he knew the storm that would be raised about his ears at this departure from the established custom, which had been good enough for his uncle and his uncle's father and grandfather, and as far back as the line extended. For the dinner in the great Hall was one of the chief institutions about which centred the social life of feudal days. Here the highest nobility and the plain folk might meet under one roof as the members of one great family. The most ill-mannered clout, who could not eat his meat without dripping the gravy all over his chin and down upon his breast, could learn daintiness and skill from the gentles who could deftly use their fingers without a single drop falling where it should not. Those into whose lives beauty and grace entered all too seldom could feast their eyes upon the most beautiful ladies in the land, their ears upon the most beautiful music of the day, and their grosser senses upon the best of wine and food,—all at the expense of their lord, whose hospitality was never questioned. Surely, if it came about that the quality withdrew themselves into chambers shut off from the rest of the house, all the music and song and merriment would leave the great Hall, and if it were no longer used for feasts and merrymaking, who knew how long before the goodly habit of spreading rushes on the floor for the night might also be given up, and the lonely traveller be forced to seek quarters in some foul and filthy inn, where the fleas would see to it that he rose on the morrow more eagerly than he lay himself down at night.

So at least for this banquet, the Baron was determined to have his own way and cling to the good old customs, save that he set the time much later than the usual noon hour, that the feast could last well on into the night,—an unwonted dissipation that would make the occasion all the more memorable.

Two hours before sunset the blare of the trumpets summoned the guests, who gathered together in the great Court and then entered the Hall two by two, and made their way along the rows of tables set the length of the Hall. At these tables stood a crowd of lesser guests and retainers who watched the guests of honor proceed to the upper end of the room, and mount the steps which led to the carpeted dais upon which stood the splendid high table of carved oak, now covered completely with a cloth of fringed and embroidered white silk strewn with aromatic herbs.

First came the Baron Edmond de Leaufort, his under short coat of white, elaborately embroidered in gold, with a long mantle of royal blue velvet reaching to his toes, and falling over his shoulders into a great train, which, if measured, would have come to three yards in length and more than a dozen yards in width. The hood and the entire length and breadth of the mantle were edged with gold, upon which were embroidered flowers of blue with leaves of green. The wide, loose sleeves, lined in a silk of delicate rose color, hung down from the elbows in a long point which just escaped the ground. The hosen, which fit so snugly about his calves as to necessitate a sewing on at each wearing, were of different colors, one of brilliant scarlet, and the other of white, while the long pointed shoes were of scarlet. His hair, curled low over his neck and ears, rested on a stiff ruff of fine white lace studded with pearls, while over his breast hung a long golden chain of finest workmanship, almost touching the links of yet another chain of like sort which was worn as a girdle low about his waist. The Countess by his side was gowned in a kirtle of scarlet cendal, laced close to the body, over which fell in graceful folds a mantle of rich green velvet, edged with an intricate pattern outlined in seed pearls. The sleeves of the kirtle were as tight as the hosen of the Baron, and necessitated on each robing the same manoeuvres with thread and needle. About her hair (which had been freshly washed in wine to give it the fashionable gloss) was wound a gorget of finest white linen striped with wires of gold, which, after being turned two or three times about the neck and fastened by a great quantity of pins, had been raised on each side of the face until it resembled two great horns—a fashion which certainly gave a threatening aspect to the fair and elegant ladies of the day.

All the guests of both sexes were arrayed in their most sumptuous robes to do honor to the feast; yet perhaps in the breast of some of them was a certain chagrin that it was not the cold season, so that they might have displayed their rare and costly ermines, the pride and joy of the aristocracy. Notwithstanding the absence of furs, which perhaps were the costliest of all articles of apparel, there yet was enough gold spent on the backs of the nobles assembled there to have clothed in russet cloth the whole of England.

On the procession moved with stately grace to the accompaniment of the instruments above in the oriole, the great folk smiling and chatting among themselves, while the others looked on in silence. One there was, a wild-eyed man, tall and lank, in a priest's cassock, who looked on while the procession passed him, in silence it is true, yet his face speaking a language more eloquent than that of the tongue, with a look of contempt and hate and bitter scorn. Notwithstanding this, it was not very long before this same fellow seemed to have utterly forgot his indignation in his satisfaction over the dainty food that was placed before him.

While the trumpets blew a triumphant fan-fare the guests seated themselves at the high table so that their faces were turned toward those below, the great ewers of chased gold and silver were passed by lackeys who kneeled before them, followed by others bearing napkins of dainty linen, grace was said by the elegant, courtly Legate, and the guests were paired off by twos to eat from the same trenchers and to drink from the same jewelled goblets. At last the servitors marched in triumphantly bearing the elaborately decorated dishes high up over their heads that all might see and applaud. As the feast proceeded with great merriment, the going down of the sun slowly cast the vast chamber into gloom. At a word from the host, the great candelabra of gold carven into all sorts of odd designs were borne in with the tall waxen candles all alight, and set along the table. Along the lower end of the Hall tall powerful fellows held flaming torches in their hands for the illumination of the lesser tables which bore no costly candelabra, and at the same time for the comfort of the lackeys ranged along the wall dealing out wine from the huge casks that were being rolled into the Hall in a steady procession.

As one by one these flambeau-bearers took their places, flinging, as they moved, irregular spots of light into the gathering darkness, there stole in among the many minstrels gathered high up in the oriole overhead, one who bore little resemblance to his comrades. It was a face one would expect to find bowing low before the altar, or elevating the host, not singing the ribald songs that often enlivened the feasts of the great. But as the fellow wore conspicuously upon his shoulder the badge of the Baron's minstrels, no further heed was taken of him by them than to sit closer together, that he could get a view of what was going on below.