Ay, and somebody else [Queen Isabelle, the young King's mother] was there, whom I have not named. Somebody robed in snow-white velvet, with close hood and wimple, so that all that showed of her face was from the eyebrows to the lips,--all pure, unstained mourning white. Little I knew of the horrible stains on that black heart beneath! And I thought her so sweet, so fair! Come, I have spoken too plainly to add a name. So all passed away like a dream, and we won back to Ludlow, and matters fell back to the old ways, as if nought had ever happened--the only real difference being that instead of "Damsel Agnes" I was "my Lady of Pembroke," and our baby Beatrice, instead of "Damsel Beattie," was "my Lady Beatrice of Norfolk." And about a year after that came letters from Nym, addressed to "my Lady Countess of March," in which he writ that the King had made divers earls, and our father amongst them. Dame Hilda told us the news in the nursery, and Jack turned a somersault, and stood on his hands, with his heels up in the air. "Call me Jack any more, if you dare!" cries he. "I am my Lord John of March, and I shall expect to be addressed so, properly. Do you hear, children?" "I hear one of the children, in good sooth," said Meg, comically. And Maud saith-- "Prithee, Jack, take no airs, for they beseem thee but very ill." Whereon Jack fell a-moaning and a-crying out, that Dame Hilda thought he was rare sick, and ordered Emelina to get ready a dose of violet oil. But before Emelina could so much as fetch a spoon, there was Jack dancing a hornpipe and singing, or rather screaming, at the top of his voice, till Dame Hilda put her hands over her ears and cried for mercy. I never did see such another lad as Jack. We heard but little, and being children, we cared less, for the events that followed--the beheading of my Lord of Kent, and the rising under my Lord of Lancaster. And the next thing after that was the last thing of all. It was in October, 1330. We had no more idea of such a blow falling on us than we had of the visitation of an angel. I remember we were all gathered--except the little ones--in my Lady's closet, for after my marriage I was no longer kept in the nursery, though Beattie, on account of her much youth, was made an exception to that rule. My Lady was spinning, and her damsel Aveline carding, and Joan and I, our arms round each others' waists, sat in the corner, Joan having on her lap a piece of finished broidery, and I having nothing: what the others were doing I forget. Then came the familiar sound of the horn, and my Lady turned white. I never felt sure why she always turned white when a horn sounded: whether she expected bad news, or whether she expected our father. She was exceeding afraid of him, and yet she loved him, I know: I cannot tell how she managed it.