He drew her toward the tent-flap, which he opened. Without was a
mounted knight, in full panoply, his arms bound behind him, surrounded
by the Queen's five retainers. "In the rout I took him," said John
Copeland; "though, as my mouth witnesses, I did not find this David
Bruce a tractable prisoner."
"Is that, then, the King of Scots?" Philippa demanded, as she mixed
salt and water for a mouthwash. "Sire Edward should be pleased, I
think. Will he not love me a little now, John Copeland?"
John Copeland lifted both plump hands toward his lips. "He could not
choose," John Copeland said; "madame, he could no more choose but love
you than I could choose."
Philippa sighed. Afterward she bade John Copeland rinse his gums and
then take his prisoner to Hastings. He told her the Marquess was dead,
slain by the Knight of Liddesdale. "That is a pity," the Queen said.
She reflected a while, reached her decision. "There is left alive in
England but one man to whom I dare entrust the keeping of the King of
Scots. My barons are sold to him; if I retain Messire David by me, one
or another lord will engineer his escape within the week, and Sire
Edward will be vexed.
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