A fanfaron of trumpets came on the wind, and all were on the alert, while Eleanor’s heart throbbed so that she could hardly stand, and caught at Margaret’s arm, as she murmured with a gasp, ‘My sister! My sister!’
‘Ah! you are happy to meet once more,’ said Margaret. ‘The saints only know whether Yolande and I shall ever see one another’s faces again when once I am carried away to your dreary England.’
‘England is not mine, lady,’ said Eleanor, rather sharply. ‘We reckon the English as our bitterest foes.’
‘You have come with an Englishman though,’ said Margaret, ‘whom I am to take for my husband,’ and she laughed a gay innocent laugh. A grizzled old knight, whom I am not like to mistake for my true spouse. Have you seen him? What like is he?’
‘The gentlest and sweetest of kings,’ returned Eleanor; ‘as fond of all that is good and fair and holy as is your own royal father.’
Margaret coughed a little. ‘My husband should be a gallant warlike knight,’ she said, ‘such as was this king’s father.’
‘Oh, see! cried Eleanor. ‘I saw the glitter of the spears through the trees. There’s another blast of the trumpets! Oh! oh! it is a gallant sight! If only Jamie, my little brother, could see it! It stirs one’s blood.’
‘Ah yes, Elleen,’ cried Jean. ‘This is something to have come for.’
‘And Margaret, sweet Madge,’ repeated Eleanor to herself, in her native Scotch, while King Rene’s trumpets, harps, and hautbois burst forth with an answering peal, so exciting her that her yellow-brown eyes sparkled and the colour rose in her cheeks, giving her a strange beauty full of eager spirit. Duke Sigismund turned and gazed at her in surprise, and an old herald who was waiting near observed, ‘Is that the daughter of the captive King of Scotland? She has his very countenance and bearing.’
The trumpeters and other attendants, bearing the blue-lilied banner of France, appeared among the trees, and dividing, formed a lane for the advance of the royal personages. King Rene went forward to meet them, foremost, so as to be ready to hold the stirrup for his sister the Queen of France. Duke Sigismund seemed about to give his hand to the Infanta Violante, as the Provencaux called Yolande, but she was beforehand with him, linking her arm into Jean’s, while Margaret took Eleanor’s, and said in her ear, ‘The great awkward German! He is come here to pay his court to Yolande, but she will none of him. She has better hopes.’