The fare was not scanty nor unsubstantial, but evidently hastily prepared, being chiefly broiled slices of beef, on which salting had begun; but there was a lack of bread, even of barley, though there was no want of drink. However, the Prioress was good-humoured, and forestalled all excuses by jests about travellers’ meals and surprises in the way of guests, and both she and Sir Giles were anxious for Wenlock’s news of the state of things. He knew much more of the course of affairs than they in their northern homes and on their journey. ‘The realm is divided,’ he said. ‘Those who hold to King Harry, as you gentles do, are in high joy, but there be many, spoken with respect, who cannot face about so fast, and hold still for York, though they mislike the Queen’s kindred. Of such are the merchantmen of London.’ ‘Is it so?’ asked Lorimer. ‘If King Edward be as deep in debt to them as to me for housings and bridle reins methinks he should not be in good odour in their nostrils.’ ‘Yea,’ said Wenlock, ‘but if he be gone a beggar to Burgundy what becomes of their debt?’ ‘I would not give much for it were he restored a score of times,’ said the Prioress. ‘What would he do but plunge deeper?’ ‘There would be hope, though, of getting an order on the royal demesne, or the crown jewels, or the taxes,’ said Lorimer. ‘Nay, I hold one even now that will be but waste if he come not back.’ ‘And this poor King spendeth nothing save on priests and masses,’ said Wenlock. Hal started forward, eager to hear of his King, and Musgrave said, ‘A holy man is he.’ ‘Too holy for a King,’ said the seneschal. ‘He looked like a woolsack across a horse when my Lord of Warwick led him down Cheapside; and only the rabble cried out “Long live King Harry!” but some scoffed and said they saw a mere gross monk with a baby face where they had been wont to see a comely prince full of manhood, with a sword instead of beads.’ ‘His son will please them,’ said Musgrave. ‘He was a goodly child, full of spirit, when last I saw him.’ ‘If so be he have not too much of the Frenchwoman, his mother, in him,’ said Wenlock. ‘A losing lot, as poor as any rats, and as proud as very peacocks.’ ‘She was gracious enough and won all hearts on the Border,’ replied Musgrave. ‘Come, come!’ put in the Prioress, ‘you may have the chance yet to break a lance on her behalf. No fear but she is royal enough to shine down King Edward’s low-born love, the Widow Grey!’ ‘Ay, there lay the cause of discontent,’ said Lorimer; ‘the upstart ways of her kin were not to be borne. To hear Dick Woodville chaffer about the blazoning of his horse-gear when he was wedding the fourscore-year-old Duchess of Norfolk, one would have thought he was an emperor at the very least.’