tramping unheedingly across her scattered finery and coming back to take her shoulders in his gloved hands. “Listen, sweet. If ever I sent for you would you have the courage to come?”
“Come where?”
“God knows! England, Cahors—the Holy Land, perhaps?”
She smiled through her tears. “You know it isn’t my kind of courage—but I expect I should.”
“You are wonderful! I suppose a man oughtn’t to think of dragging the woman he loves about the world like that? You’re so little, and you hate the sight of blood.”
She met his searching gaze with assurance. “When a man hands a woman back her dreams she does not count the material cost.”
“It may be harder than you think,” said Richard, with rare prescience. He took her in his arms again, but their kisses were tormented by the sharp edge of parting. “Sholto will send me news of you,” he said. “And I shall always wear your favour against my heart.”
Because he was going she had to tell him what she had really thought about his fight. “I was so eaten with pride in you I think God must be punishing me now. I even made up a name for you.” Standing on tiptoe she reached up and said it against his lips. “Richard Cœur de Lion.”
He laughed and held her close, trying to curb his strength so that he should not hurt her. “It is a fine name—Cœur de Lion,” he said, without a thought for how it might echo and re-echo through the years.
Part III
Dover
Chapter Eleven
Dover was a proud town in the Spring of eleven ninety. The royal leopards flew from the new castle on her white cliffs, and the pride of England’s navy rode the blue waters of her bay. Not merely the converted fishing fleet levied from each of the Cinque Ports in case of invasion, but twin-masted war galleys with castles for the bowmen built fore and aft, and the broad, red cross of Christendom flaming across their sails. For Richard Cœur de Lion had succeeded his father as King of England and was off on his crusade at last.
Dover was a busy town, too. There were soldiers carrying dunnage to the waiting ships, mettlesome horses being coaxed down the slipway, and sailors drinking and singing wherever the sign of a bush proclaimed that alewives brewed. Down the narrow, salt-tanged streets swaggered knights and pages from all parts of England. The harbour was thronged with laughing harlots and weeping wives.
And it looked as if Dover would soon be a very impoverished town, for Richard himself was in the Reeve Hall collecting money for the crusade. People kept passing in and out of the wide door. They went in laden with this world’s goods and came out light with exultation about the world to come. He was persuading all men to the cause of his sincerity, and robbing the women of all but chastity by his charm.
In his late twenties Richard was in his prime. He had lost the first slenderness of youth, but nothing of its enthusiasm. His body was fit and strong as any blacksmith’s. During the six months he had been king he had, of necessity, acquired poise. Not the easy grace of his brother, Henry, perhaps; but a grave, considered courtesy which made a decent enough cloak for his incurable impetuosity.
“And is the new King such a fine figure of a man as they say?” the women, leaning from their windows in Reeve Hall Street, wanted to know.
A painted hussy prinking her way between the houses looked up and laughed. “For myself, I’d as soon sleep with one of those stern stone statues at Canterbury,” she shouted brazenly. “But did you see Prince John?”
They did not deign to answer her but craned their necks, with the half-envious curiosity of honest women, to see how she was snapped up by a roystering group of sailors at the corner of the market square. “Aye, I saw him, and I hope he won’t stay long!” sighed one of them who had four growing daughters.
“The King’s foster-brother is inside there,” announced the local miller, emerging from the Reeve
“Come where?”
“God knows! England, Cahors—the Holy Land, perhaps?”
She smiled through her tears. “You know it isn’t my kind of courage—but I expect I should.”
“You are wonderful! I suppose a man oughtn’t to think of dragging the woman he loves about the world like that? You’re so little, and you hate the sight of blood.”
She met his searching gaze with assurance. “When a man hands a woman back her dreams she does not count the material cost.”
“It may be harder than you think,” said Richard, with rare prescience. He took her in his arms again, but their kisses were tormented by the sharp edge of parting. “Sholto will send me news of you,” he said. “And I shall always wear your favour against my heart.”
Because he was going she had to tell him what she had really thought about his fight. “I was so eaten with pride in you I think God must be punishing me now. I even made up a name for you.” Standing on tiptoe she reached up and said it against his lips. “Richard Cœur de Lion.”
He laughed and held her close, trying to curb his strength so that he should not hurt her. “It is a fine name—Cœur de Lion,” he said, without a thought for how it might echo and re-echo through the years.
Part III
Dover
Chapter Eleven
Dover was a proud town in the Spring of eleven ninety. The royal leopards flew from the new castle on her white cliffs, and the pride of England’s navy rode the blue waters of her bay. Not merely the converted fishing fleet levied from each of the Cinque Ports in case of invasion, but twin-masted war galleys with castles for the bowmen built fore and aft, and the broad, red cross of Christendom flaming across their sails. For Richard Cœur de Lion had succeeded his father as King of England and was off on his crusade at last.
Dover was a busy town, too. There were soldiers carrying dunnage to the waiting ships, mettlesome horses being coaxed down the slipway, and sailors drinking and singing wherever the sign of a bush proclaimed that alewives brewed. Down the narrow, salt-tanged streets swaggered knights and pages from all parts of England. The harbour was thronged with laughing harlots and weeping wives.
And it looked as if Dover would soon be a very impoverished town, for Richard himself was in the Reeve Hall collecting money for the crusade. People kept passing in and out of the wide door. They went in laden with this world’s goods and came out light with exultation about the world to come. He was persuading all men to the cause of his sincerity, and robbing the women of all but chastity by his charm.
In his late twenties Richard was in his prime. He had lost the first slenderness of youth, but nothing of its enthusiasm. His body was fit and strong as any blacksmith’s. During the six months he had been king he had, of necessity, acquired poise. Not the easy grace of his brother, Henry, perhaps; but a grave, considered courtesy which made a decent enough cloak for his incurable impetuosity.
“And is the new King such a fine figure of a man as they say?” the women, leaning from their windows in Reeve Hall Street, wanted to know.
A painted hussy prinking her way between the houses looked up and laughed. “For myself, I’d as soon sleep with one of those stern stone statues at Canterbury,” she shouted brazenly. “But did you see Prince John?”
They did not deign to answer her but craned their necks, with the half-envious curiosity of honest women, to see how she was snapped up by a roystering group of sailors at the corner of the market square. “Aye, I saw him, and I hope he won’t stay long!” sighed one of them who had four growing daughters.
“The King’s foster-brother is inside there,” announced the local miller, emerging from the Reeve
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