Thibaut Canteleu was mayor, chosen by the town last spring. He made the round of the walls with the princess. “By all showing,” said Thibaut, “the walls are greater and stronger than in the old siege.”
“Not alone the walls,” the princess answered.
“You are right there, my Lady Audiart! We are more folk and stronger. We begin this time,” said Thibaut, “well-nourished, and, after a manner of speaking, free. Also, which is a very big thing, liked and liking.”
“I would, Thibaut Canteleu, that my father were here!”
“Well, and my lady,” said Canteleu, “I think that he is. My father, rest his soul! was a good and a bold man, and, by the rood, I think that he is here—only younger and something added!”
The princess stayed an hour and more by the walls, moving from point to point with the captains and directors of the work. At one place a company of men and women were seated, resting, eating bread, salad, and cheese, drinking a little red wine. She asked for a bit of bread and ate and drank with them.
A child clung to its mother’s skirt, hiding its face. “It’s the princess—it’s the princess—and I have not on my lace cap, mother!”
Audiart smiled down on her. “I like you just as well without!” She talked with the workers, then nodded her head and rode on.
“Aye,” said Canteleu beside her. “This is such a tempered town as Julius Cæsar or King Alexander might have been blithe to have about them!”