He spoke, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, a man ill at ease under his own eyes, even though self-consciousness was not part of his normal nature. Denise’s heart had dropped to a steadier rhythm. The quicker wit of the woman has always the advantage of the man.
“Earl Simon gave me some days, to keep vigils, wash, and be cleansed. I would have my arms blessed also, they will serve in a good cause.”
He drew out his sword, set it point downwards in the grass, and looked at it, and not at Denise.
She had her two hands over her bosom, and seemed to draw several breaths before she could speak.
“There is the Abbot Reginald.”
“Should I ride forty miles to be blessed by Reginald of Brecon? Here are my sword and shield. Bless them, or they shall go unblessed.”
She looked at him, recoiling upon the consciousness of all that had happened to her since the days at Goldspur.
“I?”
“You can bless them, Denise. Who better?”
The fog in the air between them thinned and vanished. But neither Aymery nor Denise noticed its passing. Life, and the infinite earnestness thereof had both their hearts in thrall.