The Prince shrank against the wall and lifted tortured eyes.
Instantly she was on her knees before him.
“Forgive me,” she said passionately.
He did not speak a word; his thin hand lightly touched the silver caul that bound her fair hair, but his eyes had moved to his son.
The little Prince slept again, though uneasily, with moans and twitchings in his limbs.
“I might have spared Limoges,” muttered Edward, “but I had sworn by my father’s soul.”
Jehanne kissed the hand that had been withdrawn from her head.
“Come away for a little while,” she pleaded, “while he sleeps.”
He rose and suffered her to lead him into the next chamber, where he lay exhausted along the couch by the oriel window and sent for his beloved brother, the Duke of Lancaster.
Jehanne sat silently by his side on a little stool, her brow furrowed and her cheeks colourless; she had never seen the Prince so silent, so weak, so troubled.