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The Countess Armaine exclaimed, “Surely you can not be
condemning me to this kind of cruelty! I am quite sure that there is no
other duke crueler than yourself.”
“My dear lady,” Duke Laurence said coldly, “there is no duke more
just than Sir Richard. And if it were not for his wishes, your head would
be off by my sword in a matter of minutes.”
“That may be,” the Countess Armaine said, “but—”
“OUT!” Sir Richard suddenly bellowed. Countess Armaine fled for
her life, but two knights pursued her, intent on claiming a reward from Sir
Richard.
“If you insure that this woman is taken to the convent of Saint
Veronica, this woman’s trinkets and gems will go to your family,” Sir
Richard said. The two knights were off at once, and soon returned, saying
that everything had gone smoothly.
“Thank you, Rotrind, for informing me of the Countess Armaine’s
insult to your grandmother,” Sir Richard said to Rotrind after everyone
had gone away from his apartments.
“You’re welcome, Father,” Rotrind said. Sir Richard looked outside at
the darkening sky and remarked,
“You should be in your room now. I will escort you.”
“Thank you, Father,” she took his hand.
As they exited the room and stepped onto the dewy grass, Sir Richard
exclaimed, “Rotrind, do you know who that is?”
The Triumph of Love
9
“Who?” Rotrind asked.
“Him,” Sir Richard said.
Rotrind looked ahead and saw a dark, sinister figure approaching
them. Sir Richard drew out his sword from its glinting scabbard and said,
“Rotrind, go quickly to the castle. Alert the king and his knights. If they
do not believe you, here is my written note.” Sir Richard took a piece of
paper from his breast pocket and in his untidy scrawl, wrote,
Come quickly - unknown man approaching. Be on your guard.
Rotrind ran into the castle and alerted the king and the knights. The
king called Rotrind “a little cherub” for alerting them. The knights, in full
chain mail and armed with swords, lances, and shields came marching out
smartly.
“Halt, unknown traveler!” the king commanded.
“I am a poor pilgrim, with nothing to defend myself except my knife,
which would not hurt anybody and is merely made to cut soft bread or
perhaps a block of smelly cheese. What do you wish of me?” the man
whined.
“Show yourself,” the king ordered. As the man flung his hood aside,
he drew a sharp dagger from its leather sheath and cried out wildly. He
lunged at the king, bringing the dagger down on his helmet. But the
knights were ready. They had their swords, and Sir Richard wounded the
man badly at the thigh.
When the knights had him finally cornered, he exclaimed, “The
vengeance of my successors will be great! You will be sorry you ever
treated me this way! They will avenge my death—”
The king complained of an earache and commanded that the man be
gagged and imprisoned in the oubliette until an appropriate hangman
could be found.
“Yes, majesty,” the jailer said, turning away.
“Oh, first, ruffian, tell us your name,” the king said.
“I shall tell you villains nothing,” was the sullen reply.
One day, a few weeks later, Rotrind was studying Scripture with
Master Hurston. Suddenly there was a banging and scraping at the door.
Rotrind and Master Hurston leapt up from their chairs. Two squires
whom Rotrind knew to serve her father opened the door. They were
holding Master Merrtont, who taught Rotrind the lyre and the virginal.
“What is the meaning of this?” Master Hurston sputtered angrily,
almost drowning out the sounds of his unusually loud fart.
THE JOY OF WRITING
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