Etoile’s black eyes covered Denise.
“Does a saint carry such a fleece of hair,” she sneered. “This man-chase pleases me better and better, sire. See how Madame Dorcas is standing on live coals!”
She laughed, and looked at Denise, tilting her chin, her eyes inquisitively insolent.
“Have the door opened, sire, and let us see what her man is like.”
Peter of Savoy glanced shrewdly at Etoile.
“How fair women love one another! Rosamond’s cup is always ready to the hand.”
Denise had drawn back close to the door of the cell, and stood leaning against the wall under the shadow of the overhanging thatch. Her hair seemed to burn under that band of shade like stormy sunlight under a ragged cloud. Her hands were folded over her bosom, her brown eyes fixed on the white forehead of Etoile’s horse. There was no furtiveness about her face, no flickering of a half confessed shame. The open space between her and Gaillard’s men seemed to symbolise something, perhaps an awe of her that made these rough men of the sword hold back.
Etoile pointed with her bow towards the door, and her eyes challenged Denise.
“Perhaps our Holy Sister will satisfy us with an oath,” she said. “For the lips of a saint cannot utter a lie.”
Denise answered her nothing, and Etoile’s face darkened maliciously under her golden caul.