The court seemed used to her. Naturally, it failed in no observance. She had her ladies, and a page stood at her call. The troubadours when they sang bent to her as they bent to the other chairs of state. Lord and knight made due obeisance. That marvellous Alazais spoke to her ever and anon, and she answered. But her words were few and short; the duke saw that she had not the gift of discourse. He saw no gift that she had. Certainly, she was not trying to please a great duke. It was not that she showed any discourtesy—that were impossible. But there was no right sense of his presence. She sat, young and without beauty, unsmiling, her eyes now upon the watch-tower drawn against the blue, and now upon the face of the singer. They said that Prince Gaucelm doated upon her. He was her father—let him doat!
“What shall a knight do for his lady?
He shall love her, love her, pardie!”
sang Gilles de Valence, reprobation of Messire Æneas being now in hand.
“All his nights and all his days
He shall study but her praise.
Her word against all words he weigheth,
Saith she ‘Stay,’ in joy he stayeth.
Saith she ‘Go,’ all meek he goeth.
A heart in chains is all he knoweth,
From other wit release he showeth!
Wit may plead, but Love is nigher,
Jove may call, but Love calls higher!
What shall a knight do for his lady?
He shall love her, love her, pardie!
All his nights and all his days,
He shall study but her praise!”
Applause arose. Raimon de Saint-Rémy took his lute. But the duke noted how stiff and silent sat the ugly princess.
The entertainment of that forenoon over, they went to dinner—a considerable concourse, so considerable that when all were seated the great hall appeared to blossom like the garden. At the table of state sat the prince and Alazais and the Princess Audiart, the duke, Bishop Ugo, and three or four others whom Gaucelm would honour. Musicians played in a gallery. Waiting men in long procession brought the viands—venison and peacocks, pasties of all kinds, mutton, spitted small birds, wheaten bread—a multitude of matters. Afterwards came cakes and tarts, with many fruits. Always there was wine served in rich cups. The oddity to a later taste would have been the excess of seasoning,—the pepper, saffron, ginger, cloves, the heat and pungency of the solid meats,—and then the honey dropped in wine. At the prince’s table a knight carved, at the others the noblest esquires. The apparel of the tables was rich; there were gold and silver vessels of many sorts, dishes, bowls, fine knives and spoons,—but, high and low, no fork.
The hall was very large, and so the talk of many people, subdued in tone as, of late years, good manners had learnt to demand, created no more than a pleasant deep humming. For the most part the talk ran upon love, arms, and policy, the latest, most resounding public events, and the achievements and abilities, personal adventures and misadventures, of various members of the company. At the raised table it was high politics and what was occurring in the world of rulers, for that was what the duke liked to talk about and the prince bent the conversation to suit his guest. Bishop Ugo liked it, too. Ugo’s mind ran at times from realm to realm, but there was a main land in which he was most at home. In that he passioned, schemed, and strove for Holy Church’s temporal no less than spiritual ascendancy. The Hohenstauffen and Pope Alexander—Guelph and Ghibelline—Church and Empire—the new, young French King Philip, suzerain of Roche-de-Frêne—Henry the Second of England and his sons, specifically his son Richard, not so far from here, in Aquitaine—so ran the talk. The visiting duke spoke much, in the tone of peer to them of whom he spoke. Ugo listened close-lipped; now and then he entered eloquently, and always in the Papal service. The prince said little. It was not easy to discover where he stood. The barons at the table took judicious part. The dazzling Alazais displayed a flattering interest, and the duke, noting that, gave his destrier further rein, shook a more determined lance. He spoke of that same Richard, Duke of Aquitaine, a man much talked of by his time, and he related instances that showed that Richard’s strength and weakness. He bore hard upon a fantastic generosity which, appealed to, could at times make Richard change and forsake his dearest plans.
The Princess Audiart sipped her wine. She heard the duke as in a dream. Atop of all the voices in the hall her mind was off in a forest glade.... She looked across at the prince her father. She had not told him of that adventure—of how she had desperately tired of Our Lady in Egypt and of her aunt the Abbess and of most of her own women, and would spend one day a-shepherdessing, and had done so. She was going to tell him—even though she reckoned on some anger. She had for Gaucelm a depth of devotion.... A forest glade, and an evil knight and a squire in brown and green—and now what were they talking of?
That afternoon half the court rode out a-hawking. The prince did not go; he was heavy now for the saddle. But the duke rode, and the two princesses. The day was good, the sport was fair; the great thing, air and exercise, all obtained without thinking of it. There was much mirthful sound, laughter, men’s voices and women’s voices. Alazais dazzled; so fair was she on her white palfrey that had its mane tied with little silver bells. The duke rode constantly by her side. The Princess Audiart had for escort Stephen the Marshal, a goodly baron and knight. The duke was well and correct where he was, Alazais being Gaucelm’s princess, and his hostess. Manners demanded toward the younger princess a decorum of restraint and distance. Only this restraint should have been managed with an exquisite semblance of repressed ardour, with a fineness of “Truly a fair and precious link between Houses!” This it was that was missing, and noted as missing by every knight and lady that went a-hawking.
The return to the castle was made in the sunset-glow. Supper followed, and after supper a short interval of repose. Then all met again in the cleared hall and the musicians began to play. Gaucelm in red samite sat upon the dais, and by him the duke in purple. Alazais, in white, with a jewelled zone and a mantle hued like flame, looked Venus come to earth. Beside her sat the ugly princess in dark blue over a silver robe.