The Passionate Brood by Margaret Campbell Barnes Page B

day.”
    “How do you know, Sir?”
    “Because we Plantagenets are all buried there.”
    “Of course, I remember. Rows of richly carved tombs with a lovely chantry—”
    “Then I hope you won’t go for a long time!” Berengaria shivered involuntarily, in spite of the heat. “These games get so frightfully rough and noisy,” she added, seeing de Barre’s bulk approaching them through the crowded hall. “Shall we go outside until the dancing begins?”
    “Aquitaine wants to know if you grow flowers on the battlements,” said Raymond, batting the eyelid nearest to Richard.
    “We might, if it wasn’t for the Captain of the Guard,” laughed Berengaria. “But I have a rose garden under the chapel wall. Would you care to see it?”
    “Anything connected with roses, after this morning!” declared Richard. “And perhaps while we are out there you could show me that horse you promised to lend me for to-morrow?”
    Berengaria spread palms that appealed expressively to high Heaven. “How English ! Did you hear, Raymond? A girl offers to show him a rose garden and all he is interested in is a horse!”
    “Well, show it to him. Then I can tell your mother quite truthfully that you are looking after the comfort of one of her guests,” said Raymond, preparing to head off the advancing de Barre with an irritating enquiry after his wound.
    ***
    It was cool and peaceful in Berengaria’s rose garden. The chanting of Compline mingled pleasantly with the evensong of birds. A westering sun reddened the housetops of Pamplona and made the tents and banners set up round the lists look all aflame.
    “I felt such a fool down there this morning,” said Richard, producing her crumpled rose bud from his wallet. “Why did you throw me this?”
    “For the hospitality of Navarre,” said Berengaria, sitting down on a low wall.
    “I had hoped it was because you liked me.” Like the rest of men who had done well, he was in the mood for fighting his battle over again. “Anyhow, it made all the difference,” he said, pacing up and down before her. “What with a hostile crowd.”
    “Not hostile. They just didn’t know you.”
    “Well, they got to know me before the finish. After I winded him they veered right round, didn’t they? I suppose it was a pretty good fight to watch.”
    Berengaria did not rise to his boyish bragging. Probably she had to listen to a surfeit of it at tournament time.
    “Didn’t you enjoy watching it?” he insisted.
    “No. I hated it. Your poor horse—”
    “Oh, I see. You would sooner it had been I?”
    But Berengaria was bad at hurting people, even when they deserved it. “How can you be so stupid? The humiliating fact is,” she confessed, with a conciliating hand on his arm. “I hate the sight of blood.”
    He stared down at her in surprise. “But you bound up my wrist.”
    “I know. One has to be bigger than one’s dislikes.”
    “Even without a cheering crowd? Unilluminated sort of courage. Like Robin’s. Mine is a cheaper sort.”
    “Who is Robin?”
    “My foster brother. You are rather like him. You do the same sort of things—not because you want to.”
    “Want to! A woman has to forget the things she wants to do if she has the misfortune to be born a king’s daughter.” Berengaria spoke bitterly, looking back at the lighted windows of her stately home. A slim, horned moon rode in silver serenity between two turrets and a young soldier with a lute chose that moment to begin serenading one of the maid servants in impassioned Spanish. “The people have stolen our private lives,” went on Berengaria, with low vehemence. “Now, while we are living them—and afterwards when they hand us down to posterity neatly labelled with the verdict of popular prejudice. Oh, I know they enjoy staring at us, poor things. But we have to pay for their cheers with ceremonial weariness and for our picturesque lives with miserable marriages!”
    “That’s what poor Johanna says.”
    “She was