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Updated: September 9, 2025
But one day, in a quiet talk with Bertram Lyngern, still her chief friend, she asked him whether he had noticed it. "Have I eyes, trow?" responded Bertram with a smile. "But wherefore is it, count you?" "Marry, the old tale, methinks. "You riddle, Master Lyngern." "Why, look you, our Lady Custance was rocked in a Lollard cradle; but my Lady Duchess' Grace had a saint's bone for her rattle.
What inducement was there for Custance to throw herself on such mercy as that? Nor was she further encouraged by hearing of another outbreak on behalf of King Richard or the Earl of March, headed by Archbishop Scrope and Lord Mowbray, and the heads of the ringleaders had fallen on the scaffold. Isabel had sat and talked for an hour without winning any answer beyond monosyllables.
Then we thus stand: King Henry that reigneth hath no right; and the true King is shut up in Pomfret, or, granting he be dead, is then shut up in Windsor." "Well, Ned?" "Shall we thou and I free young March and his brother and sisters?" "Thou and I!" She was evidently doubtful. Edward took a stronger bolt from his quiver. "Custance, Dickon loves Anne Mortimer." That was a different matter.
He was summoned into the Chief's office to find Mr. Jackson, grey-faced and worn, a broken man. "I have ill news, my boy," he said very kindly to Desmond. "Sylvia has run away with Custance." Desmond made no reply. Suddenly the world had altered for him; he had passed out of the light into an impenetrable blackness.
How pale you are!" she cried. "I only returned home last week to hear that you had been so desperately ill." "Home?" he asked, in a puzzled voice. "The only home I have ever known. I have been miserable since I left it," she explained. "And Custance?" he questioned. She shrugged her shoulders. "He is impossible," she said.
But perhaps she hardly anticipated what followed. Her eyes were scarcely ready for the sight of that white livid face, quivering in every nerve with human agony, nor her ears for the fierce cry which broke from the parched bloodless lips. "Thou liest!" Isabel shrank back with a look of uneasy apprehension in her round rosy face. "Nay, burden not me withal, Custance! 'Tis no work of mine.
"Not betwixt wrong and wrong, fair Cousin," responded the cool voice of the King. "Rather, betwixt wrong and right. Nor betwixt sorrow and sorrow, but betwixt sorrow and pleasance." With another sudden change in her mood, Custance lifted her head, and asked in a tone which was almost peremptory "Is it the desire of my Lord himself that I be present?"
The sisters of Kent pleaded that "never any espousals were had ne solemnised in deed betwixt the said Edmund and Custance; but that the said Edmund, by the ordinance, will, and agreement of the full noble Lord late King Henry the Fourth, that God rest, after great, notable, and long ambassad' had and sent unto the Duke of Melane for marriage to be had betwixt the said Edmund and Luce, sister to the said Duke of Milan, took to wife and openly and solemnly wedded the said Luce at London, living and then and there present the said Custance, not claiming the said Edmund unto her husband, ne any dower of his lands after his decease.
"An' it like your Grace to pardon me, touching her presence desired " "Enough said. All else spake you?" "All else, your Highness' pleasure served," answered Isabel meekly. "My `presence desired'!" broke in Custance. "What meaneth your Grace, an' it like you? "So quoth she; but this was other matter," calmly rejoined the King.
Slowly she became infatuated with the personality of Custance, while he, having begun to play the game of love simply for the excitement it afforded him, finally found himself involved in a grand passion. This he declared to her in language suggested by his artistic temperament, and she responded in a similar strain.
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