“That kind of warrior dies in you, Tanneguy. That kind that lives in him.”
“Long years I might hold you—!”
“Long, earthly years of war and loss and death of lovers—a-many lovers dying for one pair—”
“He is strong with Holy Church, and I am a man suspect. But with compliances and gifts I might buy—”
“No, no, you could not! Do we not know that occasion is wished against you?... Excommunication for me and for you, and over your lands long interdict.... Leaden pall of woe and anguish, heavy on ten thousand folk—”
“Say then we may not do it. What then?”
“O Tanneguy, are we not bound prisoners, you and I?”
The wind bent the grass and sighed in the cypresses. Tanneguy struck his hands together. “I am weary of the unfreedom of women!”
“And the unfreedom of the sons, the sons of women!”
“Beatrix! Beatrix! What shall we do?”