The woman had
thrown back her hood, and Camoys drew rein to stare at her. Lispingly he
spoke the true court dialect.
"Ma belle," said this Camoys, in friendly condescension, "n'estez vous
pas jongleurs?"
Dame Alianora smiled up at him. "Ouais, messire; mon mary faict les
chancons--" She paused, with dilatory caution, for Camoys had leaped
from his horse, giving a great laugh.
"A prize! ho, an imperial prize!" Camoys shouted. "A peasant woman with
the Queen's face, who speaks French! And who, madame, is this? Have you
by any chance brought pious Lewis from oversea? Have I bagged a brace
of monarchs?"
Here was imminent danger, for Camoys had known the Queen some fifteen
years. Messire Heleigh rose, his five days' beard glinting like
hoar-frost as his mouth twitched.
"I am Osmund Heleigh, messire, younger brother to the Earl of Brudenel."
"I have heard of you, I believe--the fellow who spoils parchment. This
is odd company, however, Messire Osmund, for Brudenel's brother."
"A gentleman must serve his Queen, messire.
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