Berengaria was quick to set him at ease. “I assure you that no one outside the family knows the King of England was—displeased. A pity he did not see you just now. He would have been very proud. I wish you good luck against the Count of Toulouse.”
“I shall need it, Madam,” he said, as he rose to face the cheering crowd. “Unfortunately, I shall also need a horse.”
They spoke to each other formally, going through the ceremonial motions required of them; but the cheering was gradually dying down. The eventful morning was over. The royal party began to drift back towards the private apartments for a meal and the noonday siesta. Berengaria should have followed them, but she made a gesture of dismissal to her ladies. “Go and get the head groom to ransack the stables for the best mount he can find for the Duke of Aquitaine. I fancy my brother’s roan mare might be up to his weight. And fetch our visitor a cooling drink, Yvette.”
Left alone among the flowers and the banners, they turned to each other in smiling relief, formality falling from them like a discarded cloak.
“So you are Berengaria?”
“And you are Richard?”
“I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”
“When Sholto came back from England he nearly drove me insane with the repetition of your name.”
“I know, for instance, that you adore dancing and that you fell shamelessly in love with the Archbishop of Rheims when you were six—”
“And I know that you are always inventing hideous war machines, and that when you were twelve you created a vast hue and cry by shutting your small brother up in a dungeon, and then going out hawking and forgetting all about him.”
“He was supposed to be a captured Saracen, and anyhow he has a morbid interest in dungeons,” laughed Richard. Shopkeepers and housewives were hurrying home through the barbican to their affairs in the town and a group of children and holiday-makers were gathered round a travelling puppet show by the gate. Berengaria drew him to the wide wooden rail of the balcony beside her, and Yvette brought him a drink. Laying aside his laurels and helmet, he pulled off a gauntlet and stretched his long legs at ease. “To the Queen of Beauty!” he said, lifting the goblet.
“You were wounded!” cried Berengaria, seeing a long red gash on his uncovered wrist.
“Oh, that!” He examined it with mild interest. It was the first time he had noticed it. “Must have been a splinter from the broken lance.”
“But there’s blood.”
“My page will bind it up presently,” he assured her carelessly.
“But afterwards is no good.”‘
He did not want to waste time now fussing about bandages, but Berengaria insisted, “Fetch me some water and a napkin, Yvette,” she ordered; and when they were brought she firmly overcame her aversion, cleansing and binding the gash as carefully as if it had been some deep seated wound. Richard watched her ministrations with amusement. He was not accustomed to being fussed over by women. “One of these days, Richard Plantagenet, “ she warned, between anxious pullings and twistings, “you will leave a wound too long—and it will fester. And then perhaps—you will die.” Her dark head was close against his breast and, looking up to meet his amused grin, she became aware that her preoccupation had landed her almost in his arms. At such close quarters he was disturbingly attractive. “Oughtn’t we to be joining the others now?” she said hurriedly.
Except for grooms rubbing down the horses and the people gathered round the puppet show, the outer bailey was deserted. Even Yvette was half way to the drawbridge that divided it from the inner bailey—a charming, childish figure carefully balancing a basin. But Richard was exceedingly comfortable where he was. “All I need now is rest and quiet—and pleasant companionship,” he bluffed gravely.
“But you said yourself it was only a scratch.” She tried to pull him to his feet, but he only imprisoned her little hands and sat there, laughing. “Oh, Richard, we must go!” she urged. “My parents will be wondering—Look, here’s Raymond coming for me.”
They could see him crossing the drawbridge. He paused to question Yvette, who pointed back in their direction. Berengaria picked up her beautiful white dress and ran to meet him; and Richard had perforce to stride along beside her, wondering why he had ever liked the man.
“Is my mother angry?” she panted, pink cheeked.
“Livid!” teased Raymond. “But seriously, my dear, you ought to come in and rest.”
“I will,” she promised meekly.
“There is sure to be an interminable banquet, and then all the music and dancing.”
Their air of friendly intimacy drove Richard to an unprecedented expedient. “Will you dance with me to-night, Berengaria?” he asked abruptly. “I’m afraid I dance very badly.” Henry and Johanna would have given their ears to hear him.
“As you may remember, I dance rather well,” the Count reminded her.
“I will remind Henrietta about it,” laughed Berengaria. “For myself, I prefer a beginner with the saving grace of modesty.”
The two men stood side by side to watch her go. When she had waved from the bridge Raymond noticed the bandage. “What’s the damage?” he asked. “Nothing bad enough to keep you out of the final, I hope?”
“Lord, no! But Berengaria insisted upon binding it,” bragged the morning’s victor.
“She would, bless her!”
“Do you infer that she makes a habit of binding up men’s wounds?” enquired Richard, stiffly.
Raymond tried not to smile. “I wouldn’t say that. But she’s ridiculously tender-hearted with people whom she likes.” He disarmed Richard’s scowl with a humorous shrug. “Like the rest of you, I am her slave,” he explained. “But I also happen to be her cousin. So you needn’t murder me outside the lists.”
Richard felt a graceless fool. He grunted an apology and hailed Blondel from the direction of the stables. “He’s been seeing about my poor beast,” he explained. “I’ll be getting my mail off and have a wash.”
“Come and use my tent,” invited Raymond. “It’s bad luck for you Sholto being away.”
Richard was only too glad to accept the invitation as the Keep was packed with visitors.
“There were a good many things I should have been glad to ask him this morning,” smiled Richard, as they strolled through the lists to the tents at the far end. “For instance, why do all the men who’ve been crusading wear a sort of white surcoat over their armour?”
“Because of the sun out there. The steel gets unbearably hot. Haven’t you been here before?”
“No. The place amazes me. It’s all so different from how we live.” He looked at the sentries slouching in the shade and noted that the drawbridge was obsolete. “I keep wondering what they’d do if they were besieged,” he said. “Do you suppose they grow flowers on the battlements?”
“Not quite,” smiled Raymond. “But you must remember they haven’t had a war down here for years. That’s why they are all so delightfully civilized. The King has time to see that you don’t really kill de Barre, and Berengaria reads books.”
In his cousin Sholto’s absence, the Count of Toulouse was roped in for a variety of hospitable duties. “Hi, there, Nando!” he shouted into the interior of his tent, before hurrying off on some other social errand. “Wake up and fetch the Duke of Aquitaine some water.”
Nando was fat and the well was in the Keep. He didn’t see why the Duke’s own energetic page shouldn’t get it, but Blondel was already on his knees struggling with leather thongs. Besides being unbearably set up about his master’s victory, he had the soul of a budding poet and understood that any man to whom a beautiful girl throws roses wants to meet her at dinner looking his best. He seized the filled ewer from the sulky young Spaniard and poured its contents over his master’s naked body, then requisitioned for him one of their host’s clean shirts and set Nando to polishing the Plantagenet leopards. And all the time Richard—usually the soul of good-natured indifference where clothes were concerned—cu
rsed and fidgeted and fussed. “These cloth chausses are too clumsy to the leg…I need another shave…Nobody wears a nose piece to his helmet nowadays. Take the damn thing off. I’ll go bareheaded…”
“What a pig to work for!” remarked Nando, when at last they had cleaned him up and sent him forth fit to feast with ladies. Had either of them understood more than six words of the other’s language it would probably have started a Toulouse versus Plantagenet fight before the final.
Chapter Nine
The banquet, as Raymond had prophesied, was interminable. At any rate, it seemed so to Richard. Being only a second son, he was placed at one of the side tables between Henrietta and a fat bishop; whereas Raymond of Toulouse sat at the family table with the principal guests. Not only was he Berengaria’s cousin but his province adjoined Navarre. Richard found it tantalizing to hear their laughter and not be able to join in their jokes. His own conversation in Spanish was as limited as Blondel’s, so he was glad when the servants began clearing the tables. “What is this game they are preparing to play?” he asked Henrietta, when King Sancho had risen and the trestles were set against the wall.
“‘Hoodman Blind,’” answered Henrietta, explaining it in dumb show. “You know. The one where all the men wear a capuchin back to front and have to catch a girl. I’m sure to get caught with a dress that rustles like this.”
But Richard did not avail himself of the hint. He borrowed Blondel’s capuchin, cut two holes in it and managed to steer a tolerably straight course through groping men and shrieking girls to the window recess where Berengaria sat talking with Raymond.
“My quarry, I think!” he interrupted in a muffled voice, seizing her wrist.
“Really, Richard!” laughed Berengaria.
“A little too swift to be plausible, my friend!” accused Raymond, releasing him from the hood and poking two searching fingers through the holes.
“Don’t tear it any more, Toulouse,” besought Richard, smoothing his ruffled hair. “I borrowed it from my page.”
“That nice boy with the long lashes?” asked Yvette, who was standing beside them.
“I can’t say I’ve noticed his eyelashes, but he seems pretty capable.”
“I must mend it for him,” she promised, rescuing the thing from Raymond.
“Do you always cheat at games?” asked Berengaria.
“I had to get away from a repulsive bishop and a girl who giggled.”
“I have to put up with her all day,” said Berengaria. “And with this incurable chatterbox. She has nearly exhausted me talking about your fight.”
Face to face with her new hero, Yvette became covered with confusion. “At least she speaks very good Norman,” commended Richard.
“She went to school in Normandy. What was the name of the place, Yvette?”
“Fontevrault, Madam.”
“Fontevrault!” repeated Richard. “Where the nuns grow such beautiful roses, and the Abbess is a delightful old aunt of mine with hands like a carved ivory saint. Were you happy there?”
“Oh, yes. You sound as if you knew it well. Have you been there often?”
“Never in my life, Yvette,” he said, smiling at her eagerness. “But I shall one day.”
“How do you know, Sir?”
“Because we Plantagenets are all buried there.”
“Of course, I remember. Rows of richly carved tombs with a lovely chantry—”
“Then I hope you won’t go for a long time!” Berengaria shivered involuntarily, in spite of the heat. “These games get so frightfully rough and noisy,” she added, seeing de Barre’s bulk approaching them through the crowded hall. “Shall we go outside until the dancing begins?”
“Aquitaine wants to know if you grow flowers on the battlements,” said Raymond, batting the eyelid nearest to Richard.
“We might, if it wasn’t for the Captain of the Guard,” laughed Berengaria. “But I have a rose garden under the chapel wall. Would you care to see it?”
“Anything connected with roses, after this morning!” declared Richard. “And perhaps while we are out there you could show me that horse you promised to lend me for to-morrow?”
Berengaria spread palms that appealed expressively to high Heaven. “How English! Did you hear, Raymond? A girl offers to show him a rose garden and all he is interested in is a horse!”
“Well, show it to him. Then I can tell your mother quite truthfully that you are looking after the comfort of one of her guests,” said Raymond, preparing to head off the advancing de Barre with an irritating enquiry after his wound.
***
It was cool and peaceful in Berengaria’s rose garden. The chanting of Compline mingled pleasantly with the evensong of birds. A westering sun reddened the housetops of Pamplona and made the tents and banners set up round the lists look all aflame.
“I felt such a fool down there this morning,” said Richard, producing her crumpled rose bud from his wallet. “Why did you throw me this?”
“For the hospitality of Navarre,” said Berengaria, sitting down on a low wall.
“I had hoped it was because you liked me.” Like the rest of men who had done well, he was in the mood for fighting his battle over again. “Anyhow, it made all the difference,” he said, pacing up and down before her. “What with a hostile crowd.”
“Not hostile. They just didn’t know you.”
“Well, they got to know me before the finish. After I winded him they veered right round, didn’t they? I suppose it was a pretty good fight to watch.”
Berengaria did not rise to his boyish bragging. Probably she had to listen to a surfeit of it at tournament time.
“Didn’t you enjoy watching it?” he insisted.
“No. I hated it. Your poor horse—”
“Oh, I see. You would sooner it had been I?”
But Berengaria was bad at hurting people, even when they deserved it. “How can you be so stupid? The humiliating fact is,” she confessed, with a conciliating hand on his arm. “I hate the sight of blood.”
He stared down at her in surprise. “But you bound up my wrist.”
“I know. One has to be bigger than one’s dislikes.”
“Even without a cheering crowd? Unilluminated sort of courage. Like Robin’s. Mine is a cheaper sort.”
“Who is Robin?”
“My foster brother. You are rather like him. You do the same sort of things—not because you want to.”
“Want to! A woman has to forget the things she wants to do if she has the misfortune to be born a king’s daughter.” Berengaria spoke bitterly, looking back at the lighted windows of her stately home. A slim, horned moon rode in silver serenity between two turrets and a young soldier with a lute chose that moment to begin serenading one of the maid servants in impassioned Spanish. “The people have stolen our private lives,” went on Berengaria, with low vehemence. “Now, while we are living them—and afterwards when they hand us down to posterity neatly labelled with the verdict of popular prejudice. Oh, I know they enjoy staring at us, poor things. But we have to pay for their cheers with ceremonial weariness and for our picturesque lives with miserable marriages!”
“That’s what poor Johanna says.”
“She was still struggling with Latin verbs when Sholto was in England. But he said she was like a flame. I see now what he meant.”
“He probably meant she was an undisciplined young hoyden. Hawking and deer hunting aren’t enough for her. She wants to do everything that we do. I verily believe she would go to war if our parents would allow it. You should see her in a borrowed suit of John’s trying to stick a boar!”
“Surely your father doesn’t let her?”
“He is away from home a good bit. But he nearly caught her once when riding past us on his way back from some musty law court or other, ‘Who’s that new blond page over there?’ he asked. Robin pretended she was his. He had the presence of mind to clout her over the ear and send her back for a brace of birds. So she got away with it without
a beating.”
“Robin sounds a dear! I hear Johanna is to marry the King of Sicily. How she will miss you all!”
“She will probably have sailed by the time I get back. It will be dreary without her. Even the scullions adore her.” He roused himself from the gloomy prospect to chase a little lizard from the vicinity of Berengaria’s foot. “Have they chosen a husband for you yet?”
“They are still haggling about my dowry as if it were of more importance than my disposition.”
“Who is the lucky man who will get both?”
“I don’t know yet. Does it matter very much?” She looked away towards the Pyrenees, outlined against a last pale streak of sunset. “Just the name of some politically desirable state for which I must desecrate my most sacred dreams!”
“Suppose it were some man you could care for?” suggested Richard. Having a sister of his own, he realised how unfair life could be for a girl.
But Berengaria was not to be comforted. “Suppose that moon up there were to fall!” she scoffed.
“But there must be some ordinary, decent princes about,” he urged. “Fellows like Sholto or—or myself, for instance.”
“Modest, aren’t you?” laughed Berengaria. “And anyhow Philip of France won’t let you dodge his sister, and my father wouldn’t hear of a husband for me who wasn’t at least heir to a throne.”
“I could go home and murder Henry,” he offered obligingly.
Berengaria’s pansy brown eyes were mocking him again. “It’s just sweet of you, Richard. But I’m afraid you’d make a very bad murderer.”
“What! Didn’t I show you this morning that I can strike?”
“Yes. But you’d probably strike in the middle of some market place and then tell the world how beautifully you’d done it.”
“You do seem to have summed me up rather well!” he laughed ruefully.
“So well that I even know you entertain your special friends with songs you have composed yourself.” She leaned over the garden wall and beckoned to the disappointed serenader. “If you want your wench to get some time off after the party, Cervantes,” she bargained, “come here and lend us your lute!”
Passionate Brood Page 7