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Authors: Margaret Campbell Barnes
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scoffed Isabella.
“And red-headed,” added Henrietta. “And instead of a proper heraldic device there’s just a silly sprig of broom stuck in the helmet his page is handing up to him.”
Berengaria put down her book. “If he wears broom he must be my brother’s friend, Richard Plantagenet. I hear he arrived late last night from England.”
“That is the odd shaped island where they have fogs, isn’t it?” asked Yvette, staring inquisitively at his back. “Is it true that all the men there have tails?”
The older girls’ laughter covered her with confusion. Berengaria laughed too; but then she always took the trouble to explain. “Of course not, child! That’s only some silly legend left over from the Dark Ages. These Plantagenets are Dukes of Normandy and Aquitaine as well as kings of England, and their mother was once Queen of France. So you see, this young man’s elder brother will be quite an important person one day.”
“Well, nobody seems to know this one now,” remarked Isabella, pertly.
Yvette leaned over the balcony. “He looks quite embarrassed,” she murmured compassionately. Having come straight to court from her convent school she could sympathize with his embarrassment.
“Throw him your new Damascus girdle, Isabella!” giggled Henrietta.
“And have it trampled in the dust!” Isabella was not the sort of wench to back a loser. She fastened the jewelled thing more securely about shapely hips that had snared a rich Sicilian. “What chance has a raw young man like that against real crusaders?”
Berengaria sprang up. Indignation always had the power to override her gentle diffidence. “Is that the kind of hospitality Navarre shows to strangers?” she demanded. “How do you know he may not some day fight Saladin as well as any of them?”
By stretching out a hand she could almost have touched his shoulder. He sat his horse quietly just below her pavilion, watching his adversary’s impressive showmanship. For days he had been horribly sea-sick in a single-masted galley. His arrival had been spoiled by disappointment at finding his friend, young Sholto, away; and he had not yet had time to get to know anyone else. Unfamiliar surroundings and the babel of an incomprehensible tongue confused him. “Just my luck to arrive late and get drawn against their champion in my first round!” he thought, remembering his prophecy to Johanna.
The crowd loved the way the veteran crusader loosened an experienced arm in a series of clever practice thrusts and made his mighty stallion rear and stamp to show off his fine horsemanship. Certainly, man and horse together were an impressive sight. The last word in armour with ringed mail from thigh to toe, scolloped saddle trappings of crimson leather, and a gorgeously plumed ceremonial heaume held by an obsequious squire. In the hurry of his expulsion from England poor Richard had brought no heaume at all—just a plain, tight-fitting battle helmet, a steel haubert considerably dented in the frequent wrangles for his heritage, and one slender stripling of a page.
All the same, the King of Navarre’s daughter, who had been brought up to love fair play, plucked a pink rose bud from the wreath she wore and, in full view of her father’s subjects, threw it deliberately—not to the seasoned warrior—but to the unknown competitor. It struck with a soft plop against his clean-shaven cheek, and he turned angrily, quieting his startled horse.
“He is quite handsome!” exclaimed Isabella, and the others laughed at the chagrin in her voice.
“I threw it for Sholto’s sake,” explained Berengaria, in case they might think that she too had noticed the fact.
Richard stared up at her with little gallantry. It was his first big tournament. Queens of Beauty, he had always supposed, were heartless and vain like the lady in the minstrel’s ballad who threw her glove among the lions. Probably those giggling girls leaning over the balcony were out to make a
“And red-headed,” added Henrietta. “And instead of a proper heraldic device there’s just a silly sprig of broom stuck in the helmet his page is handing up to him.”
Berengaria put down her book. “If he wears broom he must be my brother’s friend, Richard Plantagenet. I hear he arrived late last night from England.”
“That is the odd shaped island where they have fogs, isn’t it?” asked Yvette, staring inquisitively at his back. “Is it true that all the men there have tails?”
The older girls’ laughter covered her with confusion. Berengaria laughed too; but then she always took the trouble to explain. “Of course not, child! That’s only some silly legend left over from the Dark Ages. These Plantagenets are Dukes of Normandy and Aquitaine as well as kings of England, and their mother was once Queen of France. So you see, this young man’s elder brother will be quite an important person one day.”
“Well, nobody seems to know this one now,” remarked Isabella, pertly.
Yvette leaned over the balcony. “He looks quite embarrassed,” she murmured compassionately. Having come straight to court from her convent school she could sympathize with his embarrassment.
“Throw him your new Damascus girdle, Isabella!” giggled Henrietta.
“And have it trampled in the dust!” Isabella was not the sort of wench to back a loser. She fastened the jewelled thing more securely about shapely hips that had snared a rich Sicilian. “What chance has a raw young man like that against real crusaders?”
Berengaria sprang up. Indignation always had the power to override her gentle diffidence. “Is that the kind of hospitality Navarre shows to strangers?” she demanded. “How do you know he may not some day fight Saladin as well as any of them?”
By stretching out a hand she could almost have touched his shoulder. He sat his horse quietly just below her pavilion, watching his adversary’s impressive showmanship. For days he had been horribly sea-sick in a single-masted galley. His arrival had been spoiled by disappointment at finding his friend, young Sholto, away; and he had not yet had time to get to know anyone else. Unfamiliar surroundings and the babel of an incomprehensible tongue confused him. “Just my luck to arrive late and get drawn against their champion in my first round!” he thought, remembering his prophecy to Johanna.
The crowd loved the way the veteran crusader loosened an experienced arm in a series of clever practice thrusts and made his mighty stallion rear and stamp to show off his fine horsemanship. Certainly, man and horse together were an impressive sight. The last word in armour with ringed mail from thigh to toe, scolloped saddle trappings of crimson leather, and a gorgeously plumed ceremonial heaume held by an obsequious squire. In the hurry of his expulsion from England poor Richard had brought no heaume at all—just a plain, tight-fitting battle helmet, a steel haubert considerably dented in the frequent wrangles for his heritage, and one slender stripling of a page.
All the same, the King of Navarre’s daughter, who had been brought up to love fair play, plucked a pink rose bud from the wreath she wore and, in full view of her father’s subjects, threw it deliberately—not to the seasoned warrior—but to the unknown competitor. It struck with a soft plop against his clean-shaven cheek, and he turned angrily, quieting his startled horse.
“He is quite handsome!” exclaimed Isabella, and the others laughed at the chagrin in her voice.
“I threw it for Sholto’s sake,” explained Berengaria, in case they might think that she too had noticed the fact.
Richard stared up at her with little gallantry. It was his first big tournament. Queens of Beauty, he had always supposed, were heartless and vain like the lady in the minstrel’s ballad who threw her glove among the lions. Probably those giggling girls leaning over the balcony were out to make a
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