The Irish fought naked, it was said, with long knives.
Katharine heard discreditable tales of these Irish, and reflected how
gross are the exaggerations of rumor.
In the year of grace 1419, in January, the burgesses of Rouen, having
consumed their horses, and finding frogs and rats unpalatable, yielded
the town. It was the Queen-Regent who brought the news to Katharine.
"God is asleep," the Queen said; "and while He nods, the Butcher of
Agincourt has stolen our good city of Rouen." She sat down and
breathed heavily. "Never was any poor woman so pestered as I! The
puddings to-day were quite uneatable, as you saw for yourself, and on
Sunday the Englishman entered Rouen in great splendor, attended by his
chief nobles; but the Butcher rode alone, and before him went a page
carrying a fox-brush on the point of his lance. I put it to you, is
that the contrivance of a sane man? Euh! euh!" Dame Isabeau squealed
on a sudden; "you are bruising me."
Katharine had gripped her by the shoulder. "The King of England--a
tall, fair man? with big teeth? a tiny wen upon his neck--here--and
with his left cheek scarred? with blue eyes, very bright, bright as
tapers?" She poured out her questions in a torrent, and awaited the
answer, seeming not to breathe at all.
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