“Por gracia di Dios!” she cried, clapping her hands, “now that I see you wearing your sword I know that what I have been told is true.”
“I’ faith, Matilda, you are a rare hand at guessing sheep when you smell roast mutton,” was his hearty greeting. “’Tis indeed true that some favoring star hath moved the king to deal with us kindly. Perchance ’tis the moon, which is said to rule certain humans. But my news is stale. I come to take leave of you.”
The Countess’s ruddy cheeks paled beneath the tan of long exposure to the open air, and a spasm of fear dilated her pretty eyes.
“To take leave of me! Mater misericordiæ! What say you?”
“Nay, my bonny Countess, you read my words wrongly. Master Mowbray and I are bidden ride ahead to meet the Emperor. That is all.”
“You will return ere night?”
Roger stroked his chin with dubious calculation. The action enabled him to avoid her startled glance.
“I have my doubts,” he said, and, not so sure now of the simplicity of his errand, wisely added not another word.
“Do you mean that you go on to Agra and leave me here with—with Fateh Mohammed?”