“We have been home no great while,” said Aimar, “and our castle is in a corner of the land and away from hearing how the wind blows elsewhere.”
The Venetian sipped his wine, then set down the cup. “I spent a week, before this war broke forth, in the castle of Roche-de-Frêne. I found the prince a wise man, with for wife the most beauteous lady my eyes have gazed upon!”
“Aye!” said Garin. “Alazais the Fair, men called her.”
“Just. Alazais the Fair.—While I was in the castle came the Count of Montmaure’s demand for the prince’s daughter for wife to his son. Certes, I think,” said the merchant, “that he knew she would be refused him! Cause of war, or mask-reason for a meant war—now they war.”
“We heard something of all this,” said Aimar.
Garin spoke again. He was back in mind at Castel-Noir. “That is the Princess Audiart. I remember their saying that she was ugly and unlike others—like a changeling. They were praying for a son to Prince Gaucelm.”
“She is not a changeling,” answered the Venetian. “She is a very wise lady, though she is not fair as is her step-dame. I saw her sit beside the Prince in council and the people love her. Now, they say, she is as brave as a lion. Pardieu! If I were knight, or knight-errant—”
“Are they hard pressed?” Garin spoke, his hands before him on the table.
“So ’tis said. Montmaure has gathered a host and Richard of Aquitaine gives to Count Jaufre another as great. At Toulouse there was much talk of the matter.”
The Venetian emptied his glass, looked up at the stars, and, the day’s travel having been wearying, thought of his bed. Presently he rose, his people with him, said a courteous good night and quitted the arbour.