“I am faint,” she said, “and the fresh wind comforts me.”
“Courage, madame; Duke Gorlois fights for Britain and the Cross; what better blessing on his shield?”
Igraine was looking out toward the sea and the grey curtain of the sky cut in places by dark woods and the sweep of dull green hills. There was a wistful droop about her figure that made Brastias molten with intent to comfort, and dumb with words of sympathy that died inarticulate in his throat. He stood there, a man muzzled by his own sincerity, bankrupt of a syllable, though he commanded his wit to be nimble with stentorian cry of conscience. He felt hot in his skin and vastly stupid. By the time he had lumbered up some passable fancy, Igraine had turned from the window with a quick intelligence kindling in her eyes.
“Brastias.”
“Madame.”
“Listen to me, I have come by a plan.”
A sudden flood of sunlight streamed through a rent in the grey canopy of clouds. The landscape took a warmer tinge, the purple of the woods deepened. Brastias saw the sudden gleam of light strike on Igraine’s hair. Her head was thrown back upon her splendid neck, and her eyes seemed large with love.
“I will show Gorlois how I love him,” she said.
Brastias’s face was still hazed in conjecture.
“I will wipe out the past.”