CHAPTER 26

ARISE A KNIGHT

 

 

 

Dimidium facti qui coepit habet

 

He who has begun, has the work half done – HORACE

 

 

 

“Uncle Hastings!”

“Mary,” he returns with open arms. “Little Mary.”

“Maria please, Uncle! Mary sounds so plain.” A flurry of pearls, green silk and purple taffeta sweeps across the hall.

“The road!” the ample brunette exclaims from under her tight bodice. “Upon my word, the roads, Uncle! Simply terrible! I know not how you travel at this time of year, really I don’t; I thought we’d never get here. Poor Simpson had to dig us out two-and-twenty times. I thought I would lose my wardrobe. Ah – ” she wheels towards Beth “ – and these must be the relatives of your friend Erpingham, wasn’t it? Yes, that was it. And very pretty too – ”

Sir Geoffrey seizes the brief opportunity, while she draws breath, to interject, “Yes, quite so. May I present Lady Elizabeth’s kin?”

Richard and Piers give their names and bow as they have been taught. At this, and their courtly manners, Maria turns her head aside to sniff at the thyme pomander attached to her wrist. “Upon my word, you never said they were so handsome!”

And then in a trice she slaps her uncle on the chest. “I suppose this is all a ploy between you and Father to get me to forget my Giovanni? Well, I won’t! There, now I’ve said it, and it’s made me flustered. Come, Lady Elizabeth, we shall go to my camera da letto; men are such cruel creatures!”

With this, she leads Beth up the stairs, cloak and all. When they are safely ensconced behind the door of the bedroom, Beth offers commiserations over Giovanni. But to her surprise, Maria backs up against the door and giggles. “Him! Just a boy – a pretty one I grant, but I care not a groat for him; only it is good for my father to think I do.”

“Your father?”

“Oh Elizabeth, how little you know men, and how much I shall have to teach you – of the Ars Amatoria!” She walks Beth solemnly to the bed where they sit as she continues the first of her lectures. But gone is the affected girlishness; Maria is quite herself again – calm, calculating and very clever. “My dear Elizabeth, I knew from the first glance that you were innocent in these things and I should help you where I can. Men like to think they are in control of their wives and daughters; this is a well-known fact – they cannot help it. And so long as it may be a thought and not indeed reality, then we may all live peaceably and have what we want.”

“You – you make it sound like they are at war.” Beth is no fool either, but allows the supposition of innocence to pass unchallenged, not saying what she thinks; that it is only the rich who have leisure for such folly – the poor family stands shoulder to shoulder against the ravages of poverty and providence.

“Oh, but it is indeed a kind of battle.”

“And your Giovanni?”

“Ah!” She gasps dramatically. “Dear Giovanni Bernabe Angelo Fragoso Umberto – such a divine face he has, and such eyes!”

“And such a name!” They both giggle.

“Yes, they do not stint in munificence, take it very seriously in fact, but be that as it may and despite his divine looks, Giovanni would be as good as any penniless youth – and a good deal better than most – to inflame my father so that he will offer me almost anything I want in this miserable, cold island.”

“And what is it that you want?”

“Ah, you have found me out, for of that I am not sure just yet, but I shall look about me in London and think on it well.”

She glances about the room, speaking now in a more expectant tone. “In the meantime I shall make Father suffer anguish at my pining until he yields like Samson. Ha! Perhaps I shall like your brother Richard – has he money? But here am I, talking of only myself; what of you? I see from your hands that your life has not been devoted solely to embroidery.”

Beth at first tries to cover the hands she thought she had kept so well from view, but then she opens them. The ingrained staining amongst the calluses will wear out in time. It is senseless to hide them now. “Does it shock you?”

“My dear, I have lived in Florence; nothing shocks me, and you may count on my discretion. Uncle Hastings said little to me but that I might be of some use, so say on.”

Beth tells her as much as she dare – the leprosy of her father, the incarceration of her mother and their quest at the tournament.

Maria listens, hand on chest, enthralled by all. “Oh my dear Elizabeth! It’s like an Umbrian operetta – how perfectly extraordinary! We must do what we can for your mother. The king is not given to clemency, I am told, but there is more than one way to get round a king.”

 

In the morning, the day being dry if overcast, Sir Geoffrey takes them all out hunting in the park with goshawks, and again in the afternoon, with hounds. He says that they have worked hard enough and that now is the time for a little sportive diversion. The park is mostly beech plantations with pockets of oak on the higher ground, and the occasional welcome glade.

Hobbs sees to it that Richard has the type of destrier he will ride at the tournament, a sulky warhorse named Hammer – broad as a mill and built like a forge. It takes Richard all his energy to master the creature, which itself affords Maria much amusement. “How seriously he takes it all – see how his cheeks flush.”

Richard says nothing in reply to her coquettish teasing, but anyone can see he doesn’t like it. Hobbs doubles as Hastings’ falconer. He rides with other ruddy-faced retainers, jingling with the bells of the hooded gyrfalcon they hold. “It is the biggest of the falcons,” Sir Geoffrey says, “and a fine hunter too.”

Maria will not handle the hawks. “Let them play their games,” she says to Beth. “We have other matters to discuss.”

But the brothers enjoy working with the birds, especially Piers, who looks every inch the page with his falconer’s purse swishing about his belt as he swivels erratically to follow the progress of his hawk. When his bird brings down a hare, he is almost wild with excitement. Richard notices Hobbs’s approving smile at the bird’s prowess, for it was a feisty hare.

The afternoon is even better in Richard and Piers’s estimation. The dogs are brought up by other men: bloodhounds for their noses, greys for their speed. Sir Geoffrey checks the thick collar on his favourite bitch. “There, m’lady, we won’t have any boar goring your throat, will we?” She basks in the attention, but is eager to join the pack when the horses stamp their feet for the chase. They eventually corner a boar near a rocky outcrop in an oak glade. The creature’s screams are hideous, loud above the fearless yelps and lunges of the dogs. Sir Geoffrey and Richard dispatch it with bolts from their crossbows, Hobbs making doubly sure with his spear. They strap the boar to Richard’s horse. It takes four of them to get it up there. Later, they bring down two red deer, before returning contented to the house.

At nightfall they enjoy the spoils of the hunt, and each other’s company. Beth begins to like Maria, not because she flirts with Richard – though he doesn’t notice – or fusses over Piers as her “bambino”, but because she has never treated her ill, or mentioned again their existence on the marsh. She is even forward with Hannah, including her with an easy air into all sorts of matters that shouldn’t be spoken of before servants. Maria is a bad influence, Beth can see that much, but she has a tender side too and seems, at least for now, to be devoted to the Erpingham and Fenton cause. They share a bed, and though she sees Beth reading her heretical Bible, she never derides her or threatens to tell her uncle. In fact on one occasion she even expresses curiosity, for the idea of reading contraband material seems very romantic and mischievous to her, though she takes it no further. For of this, as of many continental intrigues, Maria knows a great deal more than she lets on.

Richard starts his training the day following. Sir Geoffrey is pleased by their work in the tilt yard, and says so repeatedly. For the next two weeks the days settle into a routine: Richard and Piers cut wood before breaking their fast, then Richard rides and target-jousts until lunch, the afternoon being given over to sword training and hunting.

The initial results are not encouraging; Richard is too wooden in the saddle and his lance bounces up and down like a willow wand. He’s wearing Hobbs’s old Almain rivet, a half suit of armour with no cradle for the back end of the lance. They are all hoping his new suit of armour will help.

One wet spring afternoon, Pacificus finally visits, bringing Will Short to measure Richard for his own armour. His son Tom has come too, and Mark’s half-sister Margaret, for a cart was needed to carry all the equipment, and one more aboard was no great matter. Pacificus is riding Percival again, for the prior has hurt his leg in a fall.

Beth runs to them at the outer gate, and in turn Margaret runs to her. They only clasp hands, Margaret gazing wide-eyed and avowing she won’t soil Beth’s velvet gown with her dingy marsh weeds, but soon, to the curiosity of Maria watching from an upper window, the two young women are all but running to the tilt yard to see the brothers.

“Wait ’till Richard sees you – how long can you stay? And the babe – how is the babe? You shouldn’t travel, but oh, it is so good to see you, and I’ve so much to tell!”

Then, rounding the yard, she exclaims, “Richard! Look who has come!”

Richard rides towards them, his hair rising and falling with Hammer’s heavy gait. At first he does not dismount, but just beams down at them from the saddle. His sister chides him and he is soon down with his gloves off, offering a courteous welcome. They talk about Pieter and Sarah, the cottage and livestock. Beth does all the talking, firing questions at Margaret, who remains uncharacteristically demure in her one or two word responses.

In a pause, Richard gets a word in to ask, “And you, Margaret? You are well I see, and the child?” He points to her belly, which is now unmistakably rounded.

“It goes well,” she says, nodding and looking to the ground, “and I please the mistress a little more day by day, though she gives me less and less to do!” She glances at Richard and smiles.

“And nor should you do more during your confinement,” Richard says, adding, “Everyone knows that.”

“But there is much to do this time of year, as you well know – ”

“And Pieter can do it,” Richard chides, “with Pacificus and Mark’s help when they are able to come.”

“And does he?” Beth butts in.

“Does who?” Margaret says.

“Mark – does he come to help?”

“Sometimes, when he can.”

“And is he well?”

“Yes, why would he not be?”

“No reason,” Beth says quickly, “but I am glad – that he is well, in health – and useful about the place.” She swallows and is thankful to see Piers approaching. “Ah! And look, here is Piers to say hello. Come, greet Margaret – and pull your hose up.”

 

Will and Tom Short bring their cart round to a small smithy in the stable yard, where they will be making wax moulds of Richard’s limbs. Pacificus talks through the progress with Sir Geoffrey and observes Richard working the destrier about the yard.

“He has flanks like a four-mast carrack.”

“Well, we feed the lad plenty.”

“Not the lad – the horse!” Pacificus turns to see the old man chuckling. “I’m serious. Richard’s legs stick out like oars. He’ll need another. He should have Prior Thomas’s charger Percival – more biddable too.”

“I take it you mean the horse!”

“The prior will not mind, if a benefactor of the abbey needs it and will ride in the tournament, and – ” Pacificus casts an eye at the burly destrier in the yard – “he’d welcome a chance to master this horse of yours, just as soon as his leg mends.”

“And if Richard is unhorsed and forfeits the horse?” Sir Geoffrey says.

“That I will not contemplate for now, nor should you, my lord.”

“He’s no natural in the saddle,” Sir Geoffrey warns.

“You yet have ten weeks. Have faith.”

“When will the armourer be ready for a fitting?”

“By Corpus Christi, which falls late this year, end of June.”

“Unless our sovereign lord abolishes the feast along with all the others. I hear Henry has given a dispensation that we need not observe the Lenten fast this spring, for there are no fish in the sea.”

“His first act as Pope!”

“It’s the finger of God, that’s what it is; no fish in the sea, mark my words.” Sir Geoffrey glances across to the ominous clouds pouring across the eastern sky. “Is it true that Anabaptists and sectaries will be given ten days to leave the country? For this is what I hear is to be read out next Sabbath in all churches.”

Pacificus nods with that stern grimace which means he’s digging his heels in about something. “Hugh?” Sir Geoffrey gives him a fatherly stare. “You are going to tell Beth and her brothers, aren’t you? Ah, I see that you will not! Hugh, this is a dangerous game you play, my friend.”

“I don’t see what is not dangerous right now, and anyway, it is not certain yet what they really are. And even if they were, they are safer here.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that for your own sake?”

“My sake?”

“I had forgotten what it was to have young people in the house. They fill a void.” He lets the last words linger, but Pacificus is too defensive.

“My lord, if they travel abroad, the Lutherans and Calvinists will flay them, burn or drown them. No, I say, they are better here, for there is no safe place for them while this madness lasts; ’tis their best hope.”

“Their best hope is to be won to the truth faith.” Sir Geoffrey kisses a crucifix that hangs loose inside his doublet. “They took the sacrament on Sunday last, you know.”

Pacificus does not answer this straight away, but eventually he breathes out hard and long, letting his cheeks fill with air. “And what pray is that in these days? Will we cling to Rome, hoping all her corruption will be made white as snow? By my oath, you say these Anabaptists are fanatics, and perhaps they are, but at least their hands are clean!” With this, Pacificus raises his own hands slightly. “They may have no place to lay their heads, but at least they may sleep with a virgin conscience.”

“Take care, Hugh! I know you Erpinghams have Lollard blood in you! My own grandfather – God rest him – used to warn us against ‘Sir Thomas Erpingham and that damned heretic Wycliff’, and now here we are come full circle.”

Pacificus tries to interject but Sir Geoffrey persists. “Take care, I say – and this is all I ask, for your father’s sake – that you know exactly for what cause you rebel, before you say too much to others.”

“Aye, and there’s the rub, for surely I know not what I’d reform first. Myself, I suppose – but, dear God, who can do even that much?” The tightness in Pacificus subsides and he raises his head.

Sir Geoffrey continues as if he has not heard. “I say it as a friend of your father, and yours too I hope.” He lays a paternal hand on his shoulder. “Ah lad, I would that you could find some peace, only be wise; some threads once pulled unravel the whole garment; do not damn the church to justify yourself. You Erpinghams are as stubborn as any Tudor, so just be sure, that is all I say. You know the monk William Letton was burned in Norwich this month, I suppose.”

“Should have kept his mouth closed.” Pacificus winces and then pinches the bridge of his nose, wiping the journey’s dust from his eyes. “Perhaps I should too. Will we have war with the emperor?”

“Our friend de la Pole will persuade the Pope no doubt, but whether he can persuade Charles and Francis to mount a campaign, well, of this I am less sure. Perhaps he will.”

After a pause, they talk about preparations for the tournament in Norwich. Pacificus tells of his planning with the bishop, and the various expressions of torment present on Old Norfolk’s face when Rugge gives the estimates for the ever-expanding budget. Sir Geoffrey chuckles. “I wish I had been there, truly I do.”

Pacificus steps over towards the centre rail and takes Hammer by the reins. Richard removes his helmet, revealing his crestfallen face. “I am trying, but – ”

“But nothing, young knight. You fare well for a beginner.” He yanks the horse’s head down and slaps its shoulder. “Now listen. I will leave Percival here when I return tomorrow, and take this plough horse to cheer Prior Thomas.”

“But I cannot keep the lance straight.”

“Your new armour will have a cradle – ”

“That’s what they say, but even so, my body is all over the place.”

“Yes, I see that, so put the stirrups more on the ball of your feet and absorb the rise and fall in your knees. Keep the lance higher and bring it down little by little as you near the quintain. That’s good practice, cradle or no.” He steadies the restless beast with a tug.

“Richard, away with that face. I’ll have none of it. You would not be here if I did not know you could do it; remember that.”

 

By late afternoon, Will Short is ready to take the casts of Richard’s legs and waist. Maria and Beth are told to leave. “It would not be seemly for ladies,” Sir Geoffrey insists. But Margaret is not thought to be in danger and so stays to help. Richard is exceedingly ticklish, and Tom’s application of hessian and plaster onto his bare skin causes him to double up. It takes a stern word from Tom’s father, and an even sterner word from Margaret, to calm him down. She sends Piers straight outside, for he is partly to blame for it, always prodding and making merry. In the end it is she who applies and smooths the plaster about his calves and loins, and him too embarrassed to say anything as he stands and lets her do it. Only on one occasion does he let out that sort of pent-up sigh of a man whose mind is elsewhere. She looks up from his thighs where she is working and says to him with characteristic directness, “Richard Fenton, you will ride and vanquish all at Norwich, and win your mother too; now trust in God – and hold still!”

“It’s getting hot,” Richard says.

“Aye. ’Tis curing, ain’t it, Father?” Tom says.

“That it is. Won’t be long now, lad,” Will says. “Go fetch me the razor.” Tom goes out to the cart, thrilled to see a look in his father’s eyes that he has not seen since he was a small boy, since the Greenwich days.

Margaret, who cannot sit idly by for anything, even proves a help with the razors. They must cut through an inch of plaster but not past the hessian lining into the skin. “You’d better let me do it. Better a woman’s hands than a blacksmith’s. I’m a good seamstress, you know.”

“Well miss, you’ll need to be if you go beyond the hessian.”

Will gives her the scalpel and tells her to keep to the lines he has drawn in charcoal. He waits with bated breath as she goes to work, only breaking the silence when she nears his groin. “Peradventure, a little slower round there; that is if you want him to sire you any more children.”

Margaret snaps, “It’s not his! It’s just mine.”

Will raises an apologetic hand. “Oh, I’m sorry miss, only you seemed so… so… well, it doesn’t matter. In that case perhaps you’d prefer not to – ”

Her hand is trembling now and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She dares not look up at Richard. “Yes, perhaps I ought not.” But no sooner are the words said than she feels his hand on hers and his voice say softly, almost light-heartedly, “There is no need, she is nearly finished. And look, she has not hurt me yet; let her finish. Only, be gentle with me, maid.” She still does not look up, but rather arranges her lips and nods slightly. He shouldn’t call me that; he should say it as it is. Later that night, while she is eating in the servants’ hall with Will and Tom, she silently thinks on it all. She hears the sounds of revelry and dancing upstairs, the stamping of boards, the sounds of a lute every now and again down the corridor. But then her lips and eyebrows tighten. Richard is kind, she thinks, but he’s an innocent fool. Nevertheless, she attends him the next day when they cast his torso, head and arms; attending him like a widow would a corpse, all the time fighting her own battles with rejection and cynicism. Before the mask is made, Richard talks of life back on the marsh, the work he misses, Pieter and Sarah. She says nothing, which he doesn’t notice, but she’s scolding him inside. You’ll never come back to us, Richard Fenton. Don’t you know that yet?

 

“He’s in good shape, I’ll give you that, my lord.” Pacificus observes Richard working over the pell training post. “He swings that broad sword like a fire poker!”

“My dear Hugh, you may thank Hobbs for that. He has his ways, you know!”

“As do you. I should like to see him spar with Hobbs; you say he is an able swordsman, this retainer?”

“He is. Very.”

“But with a war sword, I mean, not one of these Spanish rapiers?”

“Yes, you will see him. Hobbs… Hobbs!”

The swords are brought and Hobbs puts on an even older, rustier rivet than the one he has lent Richard. The two of them spar, Hobbs going easy for Richard’s sake, Richard striking high forehand and back, as if he were still chopping wood. When Hobbs does retaliate with counter-thrusts and attacks, Richard is easily thrown by the aggression.

Pacificus steps in with advice during their respite. “Very well, masters. Now, Richard, hear you this: you will doubtless be the lightest on the field and for that you must be the hardiest and fittest. Master Hobbs will teach you to absorb – with your sword, not your armour – the worst any knight can throw at you.”

Pacificus takes Richard’s sword. Standing close and speaking more softly he says, “And when their brief strength is spent, you will step forward and lay such blows on them as Saint Michael’s strength will give you.”

He beckons Hobbs. “Come! Hobbs and I will show you.” Hobbs looks uneasily towards Lord Hastings; the monk has no armour. But Sir Geoffrey nods to him.

They stand apart from the others, who watch agog. Piers sits up high on the side rail, eyes out on stalks. Pacificus is weighing the blade and loosening his wrists. “A few small strokes if you please, Master Hobbs, until I give you leave, then you may bear down on me like a wild boar.”

After three peremptory strikes Pacificus is happy, for this he loves: the intimacy of aggression, arm for arm, steel for steel, mettle for mettle. Let the paper princes of Europe glory in the combat à plaisance, blunted blades, goblets of wine and fine ladies; give him combat à l’outrance any day – makes a man feel alive. With a fierce glint in his eye, he shouts, “Right, man – give me your fury!”

Hobbs now flies at him with a raft of fast, heavy blows, the speed and ferocity of which causes Piers to fall from the rail. Pacificus catches each one near the hilt. Hobbs comes again, this time with twice as many strokes and sparks flying. With confidence now that this strange monk can defend himself, he lays blows even towards his head. Sir Geoffrey is clasping his beard and mouth; this could go very wrong. But Pacificus holds his ground, thus denying Hobbs the advantage of putting the weight of a forward step into each new blow. By the third onslaught it is clear that Hobbs is weakening, and it is now Pacificus that steps forward with counter-blows, after a few of which he ceases and turns to Richard. “Did you see, Richard? Step forward to receive the blow high before it has gained force, and let it run to your hilt where you are stronger. Deny him ground as soon as he weakens, and then move in when he is spent.” After a few breaths he adds, “And remember, it will be strikes on the armour that get you points, but by all means hammer him into the ground if you can.”

He thanks Hobbs and takes him by the arm. “I am not as fit as I should be. Train him hard; he must learn to attack a man as he attacks the pell post.”

When Pacificus is walking across to the stable for Hammer, Sir Geoffrey questions him about the need for sword training. “Surely most of the knights of quality will only be jousting? If he will appear before the king, then surely jousting will be enough?”

“I have my reasons, Sir Geoffrey, but I’d prefer to keep them between me and his page for now.” He looks over to Piers, who is stroking Percival at his stable door, and he gives the lad a knowing wink. “Short says he has all he needs for now. Let Hobbs work the lad hard, but mind he takes no injury. He says you will see they are shod well for Rugge’s Italian masked ball; you will let me know the expense, that I may reimburse you?”

“There is no need. It will be my gift, and my niece will see Beth shines like the star she is.”

“Aye, but not too bright; the king still seeks a wife, remember.”

“No, Cromwell is working on a German or Flemish alliance, so you need not fear for her in that regard, though there are plenty others her brothers will have to watch for.”

“No doubt!” Pacificus takes Sir Geoffrey by the hand. “Well then, until Corpus Christi!”

“God speed you, brother. By God’s grace we’ll be ready.”

Aye, by his grace.

 

“Fare you well, brave knight,” Margaret says to Richard from the back of the cart, her tone bravely cheerful. “Don’t forget that ribbon for the baby’s hair!” She cannot come again for the fitting, nor to the joust, for she will be too near her time for travel. Between now and their next meeting – if indeed there be one – she will undergo the uncertain crucible of childbirth, and he the hazards of the tournament.

Richard smiles broadly and approaches the side of the cart, resting his hands on the rail. “That I will, Moll; a blue one for the bairn, and a green one for you too.”

Margaret reaches her hand to lay it swiftly on his knuckles. “You bring me nothing but yourself in one piece, you fool!” Shaking and squeezing the top of his hand, she says, “Work hard and win.” And then, looking to Piers, “And you keep him safe, you monkey!”

“And you too, Moll. God keep you safe, and the bairn. We will pray, won’t we, sister?”

Beth approaches with Maria, but cannot come too close to the cart, for Maria has made her wear a bulbous pink Venetian-patterned gown with tied-on sleeves that show the chemise beneath. Her hair, artfully interwoven with pink ribbons, frames her face in soft waves escaping from her small, draped cap. She wants to go forward to embrace the woman she feels intuitively is her sister, but dare not for the sake of the dress, and something else – the call of her new station, or perhaps Maria’s voice in her head, or her more vain self? She is uncertain, still lingering in the two worlds, not wholly claimed by this new one, so flounced with gilt edges and pearl brocade. She fears it will change her, make her untrue to those she loves. She fears that this new world and all its pleasures is stronger than her too. She and Maria curtsey and she says she will pray daily, of course.

Pacificus detains Maria as Richard, Piers and Beth follow to the moat gate. “Lady Mary, I see you have dressed your friend very fine for the afternoon.”

“Ah, brother,” she observes him with a quiet, yet penetrating eye. “Don’t say it. You think I will turn her against her peasant friends.”

“You must help her shine at court, not just in vesture but in wit and manners. But I pray you, respect her past, for her future is yet uncertain.”

“For you all, I hear.”

“Yes, my lady, as you say, for us all.”

Maria sighs. “You need not chide me, and I think you do her a disservice besides, for she is stronger and more loyal than you give her credit for. If anything, she will have me in woollens and living in a hovel as a heretic outcast ’ere long, never mind aught else.”

She catches his look of genuine surprise, then waves her pomander at him provocatively. “Yes, and there is no need to look at me like that. I know what Uncle wants of me. And you need not fear; she will have more book learning than Margaret More before we are finished – and much more savoir faire. Not that she needs it, with a face and figure like hers, curse her. So leave her with me, and we will be ready for when the court comes to Norwich.”

“I thank you for your goodness, my lady.” Pacificus bows deferentially, but not too low, for he cannot as yet discern whether she is toying with him.

“Ah, il mio cavaliere, I think you know that I am not so dull as to be virtuous: as they say, bonitas non est pessimis esse meliorem;³⁴ but I shall be loyal to my Elizabetta, that I shall!” She flutters her eyelashes and flirts her linguistics his way. But it is all to no obvious avail, as she can see this monk is like a rock. So she adds in self-defence, “But listen to me prating on about my virtues, when your party has moved down the king’s highway to Norwich! You must away, mon frère – or should I call you monsieur? You are so intriguing!”

He does not yet have the answer to that question. “Adieu, my lady.” Pacificus bows.