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Updated: June 15, 2025
I translate it into English, though it is impossible adequately to carry over either the flavour or the idiom of the language: Written on this May Day of the year 157, at the place hight Rozel in the Manor called of the same of Jersey Isle, to Michel de la Foret, at Anvers in Flanders.
But there are weighty matters 'twixt France and England, and De la Foret may turn the scale one way or another. What follows, beggar of Rozel?" "That Mademoiselle Aubert and her father may live without let or hindrance in Jersey." "That you may eat sour grapes ad eternam? Next?" "That Buonespoir be pardoned all offences and let live in Jersey on pledge that he sin no more, not even to raid St.
"This rascal of the sea Buonespoir you will have safe bestowed till I recall his existence again," she said to a captain of men-at-arms; "and you, Monsieur of Rozel, since you are my butler, will get you to my dining-room, and do your duty the office is not all perquisites," she added smoothly.
"Raoul Lempriere of Rozel they call me, Michel de la Foret, and by Rollo the Duke, but I'll take your word in the way of friendship, as the lady yonder takes it for riper fruit! Though, faith, 'tis fruit of a short summer, to my thinking." All this while Buonespoir the pirate, his face covered with blood, had been swearing by the little finger of St.
"When the Seigneur of Rozel fell from his horse, overslung with sack, the night of the royal Duke's visit, and the footpads were on him, I carried him on my back to the lodge of Rozel Manor. The footpads had scores to settle with the great Rozel." For a moment the Seigneur stared, then roared again, but this time with laughter.
For every fleece you thieved I'll have you flayed with bow-strings if ever I sight your face within my boundaries." "Then I'll fetch and carry no more for M'sieu' of Rozel," said Buonespoir, in an offended tone, but grinning under his reddish beard. "When didst fetch and carry for me, varlet?" Lempriere roared again.
It died away in the roar of the surf, in the happy cries of foolish women, and the laughter of men back from a dangerous adventure. As the Seigneur's boat was drawn up the shore, Angele threw herself into the arms of Michel de la Foret, the soldier dressed as a priest. Lempriere of Rozel stood abashed before this rich display of feeling.
"And I, my lord, am Lempriere, Seigneur of Rozel and butler to the Queen." "Where is Rozel?" asked my Lord Chamberlain. The face of the Seigneur suddenly flushed, his mouth swelled, and then burst. "Where is Rozel!" he cried in a voice of rage. "Where is Rozel! Have you heard of Hugh Pawlett," he asked, with a huge contempt "of Governor Hugh Pawlett?" The Lord Chamberlain nodded.
"Is it innocent to be here at night, my palace gates shut, with your lover- alone?" Leicester laughed at the words. "Your Majesty, oh, your gracious Majesty, hear me. We were not alone not alone " There was a rustle of curtains, a heavy footstep, and Lempriere of Rozel staggered into the room. De la Foret ran to help him, and throwing an arm around him, almost carried him towards the couch.
Religion to him was a dull recreation invented chiefly for women. She became plain enough now. "'Tis no images nor religion that stands between us," she answered, "though they might well do so. It is that I do not love you, Monsieur of Rozel." His face, which had slowly clouded, suddenly cleared. "Love! Love!" He laughed good-humouredly. "Love comes, I'm told, with marriage.
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