the
King's foster-sister in sooth, for I was ten years the younger; and it
was Robin, my brother, that claimed kin with him on that hand. But he
was ever hendy [amiable, kindly, courteous] to me. God rest his hapless
soul!

But where shall my tale begin? Verily, I have no mind to set forth from
the creation, as chroniclers are wont. I was not there then, and lived
not through that, nor of a long while after. Must I then begin from my
creation? aswhasay [as who should say--that is to say], as near it as my
remembrance taketh me. Nay, I think not so: for then should I tell much
of the reign of King Edward of Westminster [Edward the First], that were
right beside the real story. I think I shall take date from the time of
the Queen's first departure to France, which was the year of our Lord
God, 1324.

I was a young maid of seventeen years when I entered the Queen's
household,--her own age. But in another sense, I was tenfold the child
that she was. Indeed, I marvel if she ever were a child. I rather
think she was born grown-up, as the old heathen fabled Minerva to have
been. While on waiting, I often used to see and hear things that I did
not understand, yet which I could feel were disapproved by something
inside me: I suppose it must have been my conscience. And if at those
times I looked on my mother's face, I could often read disapproval in
her eyes also. I never loved the long secret discourses there used to
be betwixt the Queen and her uncle, my Lord of Lancaster: they always
had to me the air of plotting mischief. Nor did I ever love my Lord of
Lancaster; there was no simplicity nor courtesy in him. His natural
manner (when he let it be seen) was stern and abrupt; but he did very
rarely allow it to be seen; it was nearly always some affectation put
on. And I hate that, and so doth Jack.

At that time I loved and hated instinctively, as I think children do;
and at seventeen years, I was a child in all things save by the almanac.
I could rarely tell why I did not love people--only, I did not love
them. I knew oftener why I did. I never thought much of Sir Piers de
Gavaston, that the King so dearly affected, but I never hated him in a
deadly fashion, as some did that I knew. I loved better Sir Hugh Le
Despenser, that was afterwards Earl of Gloucester, for he--

"Sissot," saith a voice behind me, "what is the name of that chronicle?"

"I cannot tell, Jack," said I. "What wouldst have it called?"