“My august master has some concern with the doings of France,” he said quietly. “The lady is not for you. My master has other plans. . .” He moistened his thin lips with his tongue. “Other plans for the lady . . . and for you.”
Of course, by the lady I knew he referred to the great Duchess Philippa, widow of Geoffrey, last Duke of Aquitaine. But great duchess, widow, and all, Philippa was a woman, and young, and gay, and beautiful, and, by my faith, fashioned for me.
“What are his plans?” I demanded bluntly.
“They are deep and wide, Count Sainte-Maure—too deep and wide for me to presume to imagine, much less know or discuss with you or any man.”
“Oh, I know big things are afoot and slimy worms squirming underground,” I said.
“They told me you were stubborn-necked, but I have obeyed commands.”
Martinelli arose to leave, and I arose with him.
“I said it was useless,” he went on. “But the last chance to change your mind was accorded you. My august master deals more fairly than fair.”
“Oh, well, I’ll think the matter over,” I said airily, as I bowed the priest to the door.
He stopped abruptly at the threshold.