Her face was large
and square and red, with fierce, thick brows, and the eyes of one
who was accustomed to rule. Taller and broader than her husband,
her flowing gown of sendall, and fur-lined tippet, could not
conceal the gaunt and ungraceful outlines of her figure. It was
the age of martial women. The deeds of black Agnes of Dunbar, of
Lady Salisbury and of the Countess of Montfort, were still fresh
in the public minds. With such examples before them the wives of
the English captains had become as warlike as their mates, and
ordered their castles in their absence with the prudence and
discipline of veteran seneschals. Right easy were the Montacutes
of their Castle of Twynham, and little had they to dread from
roving galley or French squadron, while Lady Mary Loring had the
ordering of it. Yet even in that age it was thought that, though
a lady might have a soldier's heart, it was scarce as well that
she should have a soldier's face. There were men who said that
of all the stern passages and daring deeds by which Sir Nigel
Loring had proved the true temper of his courage, not the least
was his wooing and winning of so forbidding a dame.
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