Gisborne . . .
We had travelled slowly through Aquitaine. Our pace was geared to old Marais’ equestrian skills which were limited. If I was unchaperoned, I would have encouraged the men to make haste and we would have been in Le Havre or Calais in half the time and ready to find a ship and some good weather. But what could have been an isolated and dreary journey for me was lightened by the amount of travellers we encountered – merchants, nobility, men at arms, mercenaries, pilgrims. Travellers were always willing to pass the time and thus we heard that Henry and Eleanor were at it again. Henry’s amorous adventures with half of the beauties of Christendom was assuming the scope of a legend and it was the only time I heard Marais’ voice lighten. In truth, Henry was unfit and I privately questioned that he would live to a ripe age. His sons continued to battle around him, with each other and with him, and over it all hung the shadow of dark John and golden Richard. I remembered John as a child in Aquitaine and liked him not one bit. He reminded me of the kind of fiend that would pull the wings off flies. Richard on the other hand had Eleanor’s heart and the appearance of a hero. I had no doubt where some of the legend would lie after we were dead and gone. I posed the question to Guy. ‘Prince John or Prince Richard, Guy? Who would you have as your liege lord?’ He started at my voice, as if he had been sure the new troupe formation should keep me quiet and away from his ears. I twisted around to look back at him and for a bare second he gazed at me and then away as if I smelled of something abhorrent. Lord knows why he should treat me thus and it had gone beyond hurting me to a simmering anger. My God! Self-opinionated, jumped-up squire that he was. ‘Well?’ I prompted, ‘Are you afraid to answer? Have you no opinions of your own?’ I could be so outspoken when I was angry. It is not a merit of which I am proud.