“No. None.”
“If there is battle,” said Ugo, “I pray the Blessed Mother of God that the right may win!”
He spoke with attempted unction. What was gained was more acid than balm.
The princess had a strange, hovering smile. “How may a man be assured in this world,” she asked, “which of two shields is the right knight’s?”
Ugo darted a look. “How may a man?—May a woman, then?”
“As much, and as little, as a man,” answered the Princess Audiart. “My Lord Bishop, if Count Jaufre strikes down Roche-de-Frêne, will you wed him and me?”
Ugo kept a mask-like face. “I am a man of peace, my Lady Audiart! It becomes such an one to wish that foes were friends, and hands were joined.”
With this to think of, the princess rode through the chief street of Roche-de-Frêne, the castle looming nearer and more huge with each pace of the Arabian. Here was the deep moat and the bridge sounding hollowly; here the barbican, Lion Tower and Red Tower. She rode beneath the portcullis, through the resounding, vaulted passage, and in the court the noblest knight helped her from her horse. She was dressed in a dull green stuff, fine and thin, with a blue mantle for need, and about her dark hair a veil twisted turban-wise. Her ladies came to meet her, silken pages and chamberlains stepped backward before her. She asked for Madame Alazais, and learning that she was in the garden, went that way.