“My lady, I would speak alone with lord Archambaut.”
“Willingly, madam, since you wish it,” replied Flamenca.
At the next window sat the countess of Nevers who, when she saw Flamenca draw near, greeted her and made her a cushion of her own mantle. Flamenca, thanking her, sat down beside her, and looked out upon the jousting.
The queen lost no time but broke forth in bitter rage:
“My lord Archambaut, is it not most unseemly for the king to wear thus, beneath my very eyes, an amorous devise? Methinks it is an affront to you, no less than to me.”
Archambaut saw clearly that she suspected Flamenca of having given the sleeve to the king.
“By Christ, my lady,” he hastened to answer, “I can not see that the king dishonours either you or me in thus bearing the badge of love. With him it is but knightly duty.”
“My lord, that is an excuse of which you yourself will have good need before another fortnight be past.”
“Nay, madam, seek not to make me jealous where there is no need.”
“Do you think then,” demanded the queen, frowning, “that you too will not feel the pangs of jealousy? By my faith, that you shall, and not, perchance, without good cause.”