snyb (blame) me when she found it so: and if no, well, I had but done as I should. And I knew that Dame Tiffany, which tended her like a hen with one chicken, should hear my tidings of another fashion from the rest. Had Dame Elizabeth lain that night in the pallet, and Dame Tiffany in the antechamber, my work had been the lighter. But afore I might win to the pallet—which to do I had need to cross the chamber,—Queen Isabel’s own voice saith from the state bed—“Who is there?”

“Dame,” said I,—forgetting to kneel, in such a fluster was I—“my brother hath now brought tidings that the Scots come in force by the Aire Valley, with all speed, and are nearhand at the very gate; wherefore—”

The Queen heard me no further. She was out of her bed, and herself donning her raiment, ere I might win thus far.

“Send Dame Elizabeth to me,” was all she said, “and thyself bid De Nantoil alarm the garrison. Well done!”

I count I am not perfect nor a saint, else had I less relished that second shake of Dame Elizabeth—that was fast asleep—and deliverance of the Queen’s bidding. I stayed me not to hear her mingled contakes and wayments (reproaches and lamentations), but flew off to the outermost door, and unbarring the same, spake through the crack that wherewith I was charged to Oliver de Nantoil, the usher of the Queen’s chamber, which lay that night at her outer door. Then was nought but bustle and stir, both within and without. The Queen would have up Robin, and hearkened to his tale while Alice Conan combed her hair, the which she bade bound up at the readiest, to lose not a moment. In less than an hour, methinks, she won to horse, and all we behind, and set forth for York, which was the contrary way to that the Scots were coming. And, ah me! I rade with Dame Elizabeth, that did nought but grieve over her lost night’s rest, and harry poor me for breaking the same. I asked at her if she had better loved to be taken of the Scots; since if so, the Queen’s leave accorded, we might have left her behind.

“Scots!” quoth she. “Where be these ghostly (fabulous, figurative) Scots? I will go bail they be wrapped of their foldings (plaids) fast asleep on some moor an hundred miles hence. ’Tis but Robin, the clown! that is so clumst (stupid) with his rashness, that he seeth a Scot full armed under every bush, and heareth a trumpeter in every corncrake: and as if that were not enough, he has a sister as ill as himself, that must take all for gospel as if Friar Robert preached it. Mary love us! but I quoke when thou gattest hold on me by the shoulders! I count it was a good hour ere I might sleep again.”

“Dear heart, Dame!” cried I, “but it was not two minutes! It is scantly an hour by now.”

“Then that is thy blame, Cicely, routing like a bedel (shouting like a town-crier), and oncoming (assaulting) folks as thou dost. I marvel thou canst not be peaceable! I alway am. Canst mind the night that ever I shaked thee awake and made thee run out of thy warm bed as if a bear were after thee?”

I trust I kept out of my voice the laughter that was in my throat as I said, “No, Dame: that cannot I.” The self notion of Dame Elizabeth ever doing thus to any was so exceeding laughable.

“Well! then why canst—Body o’ me! what ever is yonder flaming light?”

Master Oliver was just alongside, and quoth he drily—

“Burden not your Ladyship; ’tis but the Scots that have reached Brotherton, and be firing the suburbs.”

“Holy Mary, pray for us!” skraighs Dame Elizabeth, at last verily feared: “Cicely, how canst thou ride so slow? For love of all the saints; let us get on!”

Then fell she to her beads, and began to invoke all the Calendar, while she urged on her horse till his rapid trotting brake up the aves and oras into fragments that man might scarce hear and keep him sober. I warrant I was well pleased, for all my weariness, when we rade in at Micklebar of York; and so, I warrant, was Dame Elizabeth, for all her impassibility. We tarried not long at York, for, hearing that the Scots came on, the Queen removed to Nottingham for safer keeping. And so ended that year.

But no contakes had I, save of Dame Elizabeth, that for the rest of that month put on a sorrowful look at the sight of me. On the contrary part, Robin had brave reward from the King, and my Lady the Queen was pleased to advance me, as shall now be told, shortly thereafter: and ever afterwards did she seem to affy her more in me, as in one that had been tried and proved faithful unto trust.

Thus far had I won when I heard a little bruit behind me, and looking up, as I guessed, I saw Jack, over my shoulder.

“Dear heart, Jack!” said I, “but thou hast set me a merry task! Two days have I been a-work, and not yet won to the Queen’s former journey to France; yet I do thee to wit, I am full disheartened at the stretch of road I see afore me. Must I needs tell every thing that happed for every year? Mary love us! but I feel very nigh at my wits’ end but to think of it. Why, my Chronicle shall be bigger than the Golden Legend and the Morte Arthur put together, and all Underby Common shall not furnish geese enow to keep me in quills!”

I ended betwixt laughter and tears. To say sooth, I was very nigh the latter.

“Take breath, Sissot,” saith Jack, quietly.

“But dost thou mean that, Jack?”

“I mean not to make a nief (serf) of my wife,” saith he. I was something comforted to hear that.

“As for time, dear heart,” he pursueth, “take thou an hour or twain by the day, so thou weary not thyself; and for events, I counsel thee to make a diverse form of chronicle from any ever yet written.”

“How so, Jack?”

“Set down nothing because it should go in a chronicle, but only those matters wherein thyself was interested.”

“But that, Jack,” said I, laughing as I looked up on him, “shall be the ‘Annals of Cicely’ over again; wherewith I thought thou wert not compatient.” (Pleased, satisfied; the adjective of compassion.)

“Nay, the Annals of Cicely were Cicely’s fancies and feelings,” he made answer: “this should be what Cicely heard and saw.”

I sat and meditated thereon.

“And afore thou wear thy fingers to the bone with thy much scribing,” saith he, with that manner of smile of his eyes which Jack hath, “call thou Father Philip to write at thy mouth, good wife.”

“Nay, verily!” quoth I. “I would be loth to call off Father Philip from his godly meditations, though I cast no doubt he were both fairer scribe and better chronicler than I.”

To speak sooth, it was Father Philip learned me to write, and the master should be better than the scholar. I marvel more that have leisure learn not to write. Jack cannot, nor my mother, and this it was that made my said mother desirous to have me taught, for she said, had she wist the same, she could have kept a rare chronicle when she dwelt at the Court, and sith my life was like to be there also, she would fain have me able to do so. I prayed Father Philip to learn my discreet Alice, for I could trust her not to make an ill use thereof; but I feared to trust my giddy little Vivien with such edged tools as Jack saith pen and ink be. And in very sooth it were a dread thing if any amongst us should be entrapped into intelligence with the King’s enemies, or such treasonable matter; and of this are wise men ever afeared, when their wives or daughters learn to write. For me, I were little feared of such matter as that: and should rather have feared (for such as Vivien) the secret scribing of love-letters to unworthy persons. Howbeit, Jack is wiser than I, and he saith it were dangerous to put such power into the hands of most men and women.

Lo! here again am I falling into the Annals of Cicely. Have back, Dame Cicely, an’ it like you. Methinks I had best win back: yet how shall I get out of the said Annals, and forward on my journey, when