nding over a horde of Italians to fill vacant benefices.
The nobles blazed out into open wrath "that the Pope, through avarice,
should deprive them of their ancient right to the patronage of livings!"
They were headed, as usual, by the King's brother, Richard Earl of
Cornwall, who seems to have been not a true, living Christian (as there
is reason to believe his son was), but simply a political opponent of
the aggressions of Rome. The citizens of London were about equally
disgusted with the King, who at this time received a visit from the
Queen's uncle, Tomaso of Savoy, and in his delight, His Majesty
commanded his loyal and grumbling subjects to remove all dirt from the
streets, and to meet the Count in gala clothing, and with horses
handsomely accoutred.

The hint thrown out by Levina had not been lost on the Countess. She
thought a complete change might do good to the fading flower which was
only too patently withering on its stem: and at her instance the whole
household removed to Westminster at the beginning of this winter. They
had hardly settled down in their new abode when a fresh storm broke on
the now aged head of Earl Hubert.

Once more, all the old, worn-out charges were trumped up, including even
that by which the Princess Margaret's name had been so cruelly aspersed.
A flash of the early fire of the old man blazed forth when the
accusation was made.

"I was never a traitor to you, nor to your father!" said Hubert de
Burgh, facing his ungrateful King and pupil of long ago: "If I had been,
under God, you would never have been here!"

It was true, and Henry knew it, best of all men.

The King, in the fulness of his compassionate grace, was pleased to let
the Earl off very lightly. The sentence passed was, that he should only
resign the four most valuable castles that he had. This, of course, was
not because Hubert was guilty, but because His Majesty was covetous.
Chateau Blanc, Grosmond, Skenefrith, and Hatfield, were given up to the
Crown. Hubert bore it, we are told, very quietly and patiently. His
own time could not be long now, for he was at least seventy; and the
Benjamin of his love was dying of a broken heart.

King Henry himself was not without sorrow, for about All Saints' Day,
Guglielmo of Savoy, the beloved uncle who had moulded him like wax, died
rather suddenly at Viterbo. So grieved was the King, that he tore his
royal mantle from his shoulders, and flung it into the fire. With th