He thought she would certainty fall ill if he communicated the news too
abruptly to her: he would pretend a journey to York to attend a grand
jury; then a call to London on law business or to buy stock; then he
would slip over to Calais by the packet, by degrees as it were; and
so be with the King before his wife knew that he was out of sight of
Westminster Hall.
"Suppose your honor says you are going as your honor would say Bo! to a
goose, plump, short, and to the point," said Wamba the Jester--who was
Sir Wilfrid's chief counsellor and attendant--"depend on't her Highness
would bear the news like a Christian woman."
"Tush, malapert! I will give thee the strap," said Sir Wilfrid, in a
fine tone of high-tragedy indignation. "Thou knowest not the delicacy
of the nerves of high-born ladies. An she faint not, write me down
Hollander."
"I will wager my bauble against an Irish billet of exchange that she
will let your honor go off readily: that is, if you press not the matter
too strongly," Wamba answered, knowingly. And this Ivanhoe found to his
discomfiture: for one morning at breakfast, adopting a degage air, as he
sipped his tea, he said, "My love, I was thinking of going over to pay
his Majesty a visit in Normandy." Upon which, laying down her muffin,
(which, since the royal Alfred baked those cakes, had been the chosen
breakfast cate of noble Anglo-Saxons, and which a kneeling page tendered
to her on a salver, chased by the Florentine, Benvenuto Cellini,)--"When
do you think of going, Wilfrid my dear?" the lady said; and the moment
the tea-things were removed, and the tables and their trestles put away,
she set about mending his linen, and getting ready his carpet-bag.
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