The Passionate Brood by Margaret Campbell Barnes

rubbing down the horses and the people gathered round the puppet show, the outer bailey was deserted. Even Yvette was half way to the drawbridge that divided it from the inner bailey—a charming, childish figure carefully balancing a basin. But Richard was exceedingly comfortable where he was. “All I need now is rest and quiet—and pleasant companionship,” he bluffed gravely.
    “But you said yourself it was only a scratch.” She tried to pull him to his feet, but he only imprisoned her little hands and sat there, laughing. “Oh, Richard, we must go!” she urged. “My parents will be wondering—Look, here’s Raymond coming for me.”
    They could see him crossing the drawbridge. He paused to question Yvette, who pointed back in their direction. Berengaria picked up her beautiful white dress and ran to meet him; and Richard had perforce to stride along beside her, wondering why he had ever liked the man.
    “Is my mother angry?” she panted, pink cheeked.
    “Livid!” teased Raymond. “But seriously, my dear, you ought to come in and rest.”
    “I will,” she promised meekly.
    “There is sure to be an interminable banquet, and then all the music and dancing.”
    Their air of friendly intimacy drove Richard to an unprecedented expedient. “Will you dance with me to-night, Berengaria?” he asked abruptly. “I’m afraid I dance very badly.” Henry and Johanna would have given their ears to hear him.
    “As you may remember, I dance rather well,” the Count reminded her.
    “I will remind Henrietta about it,” laughed Berengaria. “For myself, I prefer a beginner with the saving grace of modesty.”
    The two men stood side by side to watch her go. When she had waved from the bridge Raymond noticed the bandage. “What’s the damage?” he asked. “Nothing bad enough to keep you out of the final, I hope?”
    “Lord, no! But Berengaria insisted upon binding it,” bragged the morning’s victor.
    “She would, bless her!”
    “Do you infer that she makes a habit of binding up men’s wounds?” enquired Richard, stiffly.
    Raymond tried not to smile. “I wouldn’t say that. But she’s ridiculously tender-hearted with people whom she likes .” He disarmed Richard’s scowl with a humorous shrug. “Like the rest of you, I am her slave,” he explained. “But I also happen to be her cousin. So you needn’t murder me outside the lists.”
    Richard felt a graceless fool. He grunted an apology and hailed Blondel from the direction of the stables. “He’s been seeing about my poor beast,” he explained. “I’ll be getting my mail off and have a wash.”
    “Come and use my tent,” invited Raymond. “It’s bad luck for you Sholto being away.”
    Richard was only too glad to accept the invitation as the Keep was packed with visitors.
    “There were a good many things I should have been glad to ask him this morning,” smiled Richard, as they strolled through the lists to the tents at the far end. “For instance, why do all the men who’ve been crusading wear a sort of white surcoat over their armour?”
    “Because of the sun out there. The steel gets unbearably hot. Haven’t you been here before?”
    “No. The place amazes me. It’s all so different from how we live.” He looked at the sentries slouching in the shade and noted that the drawbridge was obsolete. “I keep wondering what they’d do if they were besieged,” he said. “Do you suppose they grow flowers on the battlements?”
    “Not quite,” smiled Raymond. “But you must remember they haven’t had a war down here for years. That’s why they are all so delightfully civilized. The King has time to see that you don’t really kill de Barre, and Berengaria reads books.”
    In his cousin Sholto’s absence, the Count of Toulouse was roped in for a variety of hospitable duties. “Hi, there, Nando!” he shouted into the interior of his tent, before hurrying off on some other social errand. “Wake up and fetch the Duke of