A slaty-blue pigeon was already pecking at Ranulph's pointed scarlet shoe for a grain lodged there. The troubadour bent down, held out his hand, and the bird walked into it. He had played with birds often enough in his vagabond early years to know their feelings. But now a wave of merry voices broke upon the garden paths.
“Peirol,” he said, “I will see you again. I have a little plan for you and the pigeons which will, I think, give pleasure to Lady Philippa.”
One of the entertainments arranged to take place was a feast out of doors, in a woodland glade especially suited to it. Ranulph's inspiration had to do with this.
Among the guests the only stranger was Sir Gualtier (or Walter) Giffard, younger son of a Norman family. One of his ancestors had gone to England with Duke William a hundred years before, but the family had not been on good terms with later kings and its fortunes had somewhat fallen. Every one, however, spoke with respect of this knight and his elder brother, Sir Stephen, and they had been of service to Count Thibaut during his stay in England. This Giffard had never been so far south before, and he seemed to feel that he had got into some sort of enchanted realm. He was more soldier than courtier, but his eyes said a great deal. The luxurious abundance of a Provencal castle, the smooth ease of the serving, the wit and gaiety of the people, all were new to him. He had attended state banquets, but they were as unlike the entertainment here provided as was the stern simplicity of his boyhood home in Normandy, or the rough-and-tumble camp life of recent years.
The out-of-door dinner was not a hap-hazard picnic, but neither was it in the least stiff or formal. The servants went by a short cut across the meadow to prepare the tables, while knights and ladies followed the more leisurely path along the river bank. It was a walk through fairyland. The very waters were in a holiday mood. The current strayed from one side to the other, leaving clear still pools and enticing little backwaters, and singing past the elfin islets and huge overshadowing trees, like a gleeful spirit.
Lady Philippa had never looked more lovely. As the party was not to be seen on a public road, veils and wimples were discarded, and her bright brown hair, braided in two long braids, was crowned only by a circlet of gold set with pearls and emeralds. The trailing robes worn at formal dinners would also be out of place, and she wore a bliaut or outer robe of her favorite rose-colored silk, a wide border of gold embroidery giving it weight enough to make it hang in graceful lines. The sleeves were loose and long, the ends almost touching the hem of the gown. Under this was a violet silk robe of heavier material with bands of ermine at the neck and on the small close sleeves. Under this again the embroidered edges of a fine white linen robe could be seen at throat and wrists. The girdle was of braided violet silk, the ends weighted with amethyst and emerald ornaments. A white mantle of silk and wool, trimmed with fur of the black squirrel, and fastened under the chin with a gold button, and an embroidered alms-purse, completed the costume. The other ladies of the party were attired as carefully, and the dress of the men was as rich and brilliant as that of the women. They passed through the wavering light and shadow of the woodlands like a covey of bright-plumaged birds.
In the level open space where the feast was spread the servants had placed trestles, over which long boards were fitted. Benches covered with silken cushions served as seats. The cloth was of linen dyed scarlet in the rare Montpellier dye, and over it was spread another of white linen, embroidered in open-work squares. At each end of the table was a large silver dish, one containing a meat-pie, the other a pie made of the meat of various fowls with savory seasoning. On silver plates were slices of cold chicken and meat. Glass trays contained salad, lettuces, radishes and olives. The salt, pepper and spices were in silver and gold dishes of fanciful shapes. Here and there were crystal vases of freshly gathered roses and violets. On the corners of the table were trenchers of white bread—wastel, cocket, manchet, of fine wheaten flour,—and brown bread of barley, millet and rye. For dessert there were the spicy apples of Auvergne, Spanish oranges, raisins, figs, little sweet cakes, wine white and red, and nuts in a great carved brass dish of the finest Saracen work, with carved wood nut-crackers. Ewers and basins of decorated brass, for washing the hands after the meal, were ready. Eastern carpets and cushions, placed upon a bank under the trees, would afford a place where the company, after dining, might linger for hours, enjoying the gay give-and-take of conversation, the songs of artists who knew their art, and the constant musical undertone of winds, birds and waters. The surprise which Ranulph had planned was designed for the moment when the guests began to dally with nuts and wine, reluctant to leave the table. Some one called upon the troubadour to sing. He had counted upon this. Rising, he bowed to the Count and his daughter, and began:
“In the month of Arcady
Green the summer meadows be,—
When the dawn with fingers light
Lifts the curtains of the night,
And from tented crimson skies
Glorious doth the sun arise,—
Who are these who give him greeting,
On swift wings approaching, fleeting,—
Who but birds whose carols bring
Homage to their gracious King!
“Lo! the Queen of Arcady
From the land of Faery
Gladdens our adoring eyes,
Fair and gentle, sweet and wise,
Her companions here on earth
Love and Loyalty and Mirth!
Who, the joyous tidings hearing,
Fly to greet her, now appearing?
Aphrodite's pigeons fleet,—
See, they gather at her feet.”
No one had heard a low clear call from the boughs of the tree overhead, or seen the figure of a small boy in a fantastic tunic of goatskins, slipping down the tree-trunk near Ranulph. As the company rose from the table the troubadour moved away a little, still thrumming his refrain, and in that moment there was a whir of sudden wings and the air was dark with pigeons. As the birds alighted Lady Philippa was surrounded by the pretty creatures, and in a graceful little speech Ranulph presented to her Peirol as a Faun, the Master of the Pigeons, who had brought them to do homage to their sovereign lady.
It was just the sort of informal pageant to delight the heart of Provence. No more dainty and captivating interlude had been seen at a festival.