Richard, entering, flung himself into the chair set for him in the middle of a great square of cloth worked with gold. His brow was dark; when he spoke, his voice had the ominous, lion note.
“My lord of Beauvoisin!”
Beauvoisin came near. “Lord, all is arranged—”
The duke made a violent movement of impatience, of anger beginning to work.
“This is a madness that leads to naught! Does this princess think I am so fickle—?”
His blue eye, roving the room, came to the group of knights at the far end. “Yonder knight—is he Garin of the Golden Island?”
“Yes, lord.”
Duke Richard gazed at Garin of the Golden Island. “By the rood, he looks a man!” He turned to his anger again. “But now this woman—this Princess of Roche-de-Frêne—” His impatient foot wrinkled the silken carpet. “She may count it for happiness if I do not hold her here while I send messengers to Count Jaufre, ‘Lo, I have caged your bride for you!’” He nursed his anger. Beauvoisin saw with apprehension how he fanned it. “What woman comprehends man’s loyalty to man? I said to Montmaure I would aid him—”
“My lord, the princess is here—within yonder room.”
“Ha!” cried Richard; and that in his nature that gave back, touch for touch, Jaufre de Montmaure, came through the doors his anger had opened. “Let her then come to me here as would the smallest petitioner! God’s blood! Montmaure has her land. I hold her not as reigning princess and my peer!”