The Passionate Brood by Margaret Campbell Barnes

as usual, standing in the middle of an animated group discussing some last minute alteration with the Marshall. She could see Yvette run past him with scarcely a glance, making for the patch of shadow where Blondel and Nando were holding the horses. The tall roan was stamping impatiently for her rider and Berengaria found herself sharing the same impatience. Any minute now he would come out into the courtyard, striding with that long, soft tread of his, beckoning arrogantly for his page. “Give me your heart before you go—” sang Berengaria, realizing suddenly what tune she had been humming all morning, and stopping abruptly at the sound of hurrying footsteps on the stairs. “Well, Isabella,” she called over her shoulder, “have you stripped all my best bushes?”
    There was no answer—only that long, soft tread behind her. She turned swiftly, with tumultuously beating heart. “Richard! What are you doing here?” she cried; for rarely did any man less nearly related than Raymond find his way to the room she shared with her women. But, taken off her guard like that, there was no mistaking the joy in her voice.
    He came straight to her, taking both her hands in his. “I had to find you,” he said urgently. His face was set and white beneath the southern tan, and she noticed that he wore a plain and serviceable riding cloak. “Where is your armour?” she stammered. “Are you not going to tilt?”
    He hardly seemed to hear her. “I had to come here,” he reiterated. “They meant to be kind down there. But they talked and talked. And all the time I was planning how I could see you before I go.”
    “Go!” she echoed, all those sunny to-morrows drifting out of sight like the little puffy, white clouds. When he let go her hands she felt weak and empty.
    He began padding back and forth. “It’s about Henry,” he said, in a stunned sort of way. “You remember what I said jokingly about murdering him? I little thought then…God forgive me! That was only last night, wasn’t it? And after I left you I heard that he is dead.”
    “Dead! Oh, Richard, how terrible!” She stood desolately in the middle of the room, crucifying herself with his hurt as some women can—imagining how she would be feeling had it been her brother who was dead. Presently she said gently,” I am so sorry—so grievously sorry. Can you tell me about it?”
    He stood looking down at the gay pageantry of Pamplona. Competitors and crowd, officials and servants—all the supernumeraries who were to have formed a frame for the uncertain issue of his fight. The medley of their voices came up to him, far off and shrill like the shouting of children playing on the seashore. Tents and trappings and gowns were so many gaudy blotches against the sombre background of his thoughts. He hated them because he no longer had any part in them. “Henry had gone to Normandy to raise some money for our crusade,” he was saying woodenly. “It seems he caught some sort of fever…Anyway, he will never come crusading now.”
    Sensing her dumb participation, he turned with a reassuring smile. He was never one to unload his burdens on to any woman’s love. “Oh, you needn’t be too sorry for me! Anyone will tell you we quarrelled like curs. Aquitaine and Poitou have been laid waste by our disputes over patrimony. But he was one of us. Cleverer than I, of course—and much more fit to rule. And a good fighter, God rest his soul!” He crossed himself, standing quiet for a moment in prayer or thought.
    Berengaria yearned over his bright; bent head. “Why must you go immediately?” she asked.
    “Because of my lands,” he said crisply.
    He was so oddly compounded of sentiment and common sense that she found herself saying with an almost motherly smile, “They won’t run away.”
    “No. But they can be given away.”
    “At least wait until after the tournament.”
    He shook his head obstinately. “King Sancho has excused me, and your cousin understands.