They bowed before him. “Lord Bishop, our great ones are gathered in the garden, harkening to troubadours.”
One of higher authority came and took the word from them. “My lord, I will lead you to where these rossignols are singing! They sing in honour of ladies, and of the court’s guest, the duke from Italy who would marry our princess!”
They moved through a noble, great hall, bare of all folk but doorkeepers.
“Will the match be made?” asked Ugo.
“We do not know,” answered his conductor. “Our Lady Alazais favours it. But we do not know the mind of Prince Gaucelm.”
Ugo walked in silence. His own mind was granting with anger the truth of that. Presently he spoke in a measured voice. “If it be made, it will be a fair alliance. Undoubtedly a good marriage! For say that to our sorrow Prince Gaucelm hath never a son of his own, then it may come that his daughter’s son rule that duchy and this land.”
“Dame Alazais,” said the other in a tone of discreetness, “hath been six years a wife. The last pilgrimage brought naught, but the next may serve.”
“Pray Our Lady it may!” answered Ugo with lip-devoutness, “and so Gaucelm the Fortunate become more fortunate yet.—The Princess Audiart hath been from home.”
“Aye, at Our Lady in Egypt’s. But she is returned, the prince having sent for her. Hark! Raimon de Saint-Rémy is singing.”
There was to be heard, indeed, a fine, manly voice coming from where, through an arched exit, they now had a glimpse of foliage and sky. It sang loudly and boldly, a chanson of the best, a pæan to woman’s lips and throat and breast, a proud, determined declaration of slavery, a long, melodious cry for mistress mercy.