“
You shall not marry again?” asked the prince.
“
Nay,” she laughed. “I have married twice—or very nearly twice—and that is more than enough for one woman. I have four children. My little Thomas is ten years old! What can I want with another husband?”
“
But cousin,” said the prince, reaching out for her hand and pulling her gently back to the stone bench, “
Belle Cousine
! You must marry.” He smoothed back the veil that covered the sides of her face. “You cannot let those great beauties with which Our Blessed Redeemer has endowed you be all for naught. Upon my soul, if you and I were not of common kin, there is no lady under heaven whom I should hold so dear as you.”
At this, the lady’s smile disappeared. She fell forward and leaned upon his shoulder as bitter tears ran down her cheek. The prince stroked her face gently and tried to comfort her, but her tears continued to fall like summer rain. He kissed her brow, and still she wept. He kissed her cheek, yet she cried on.
“
Lord Brocas is a good man!” said the prince in anguish. “He will make you happy, my dear one.”
“
Ah, your highness,” said Joan reproachfully. “For God’s sake forbear to speak of such things to me. I have made up my mind not to marry again; for I have given my heart to the most gallant gentleman under the firmament. For love of him, I shall have no husband but God so long as I live. It is impossible that I should marry him, and yet, for love of him, I wish to shun the company of all other men. I am resolved never to marry.”
The lady cast down her eyes as she said this, but the prince lifted up her chin. He asked her tell him who was this gentlemen to whom she had given her heart. The lady shook her head sadly. When he persisted, she fell to her knees before him. “My dear cousin,” said Joan. “For Christ’s sake and for the Holy Virgin’s, I entreat you to forbear from asking me.”
“
Nay, I shall not forbear,” replied the prince, and his voice shook with some of the thunder that it carried at Poitiers. “I have been your friend, dear lady, but if you do not tell me here and now who is this gallant gentleman that holds your heart, I shall be forever your most deadly enemy. Tell me, Joan. Tell me his name!”
She wiped a tear from her eye and looked straight into the dark eyes below his threatening brow. “Very dear and redoubtable lord, how can I hide it from you any longer? It is you who are the most gallant gentleman. And it is for love of you that no gentleman shall lie beside me. Since I cannot be your bride, I shall be the bride of Christ.”
The prince raised her kneeling figure from the ground and held her firmly in his arms. “Lady, I swear to you that as long as I live, no other woman shall be my wife.”
“
But it cannot be!” said Joan. “We are kin!”
He stopped her mouth with a kiss. “Then I shall build an abbey for the Holy See. William the Conqueror did the same for his Matilda, and in consequence of that the pope said nary a word of condemnation.”
“
But he did not have to deal with a French pope,” objected Joan, perversely parading every protest now that the prince had made his protestation of love to her. “Mayhap an abbey will not appease him?”
“
Then I shall march an army to the gates of Avignon!” replied the prince in good natured exasperation. “I have outwitted conspirators at Calais, I have sunk Spaniards aboard their ships, I have captured kings at Poitiers—and shall I fear the cry of “Consanguinity!” from a caitiff pontiff? Come, cousin, have done with your cavils and say rather that you will have me as your husband.”
At this the lady demurred no longer, but placing her hands in his, declared herself entirely willing to forget her cousinly scruples and trust in the better judgment of her
beau cousin
,
le chevalier le plus galant dans tout le monde
.
*****
When the prince returned to his quarters several hours later, the early winter evening had already chased the sun from the horizon. The Captal de Buch had retired to bed, as old men are wont to do, but he found Brocas and Potenhale wide awake and playing at chess before a warm fire.
“
How went my suit?” demanded Brocas with a devilish gleam in his eye.
The prince shook his head, “Poorly, poorly. It seems the lady likes you not.”
“
Alas and alack!” cried Brocas. “But did you seek to persuade the lady by itemizing my better parts?”
“
I used every means of persuasion, my friend, but the lady swears she loves another.”
“
Another?” asked Brocas in mock despair. “Who is this wretch? Tell me his name that I may throw my gauntlet in his face.”
The prince shrugged. “What can I say? I am he.”
Brocas rose slowly from his chair. “I could be angry at you, methinks. I asked you to get me a wife, and you have dealt most feigningly with me.”
“
I also could be angry,” replied the prince. “For against my will, you have thrown me in the way of my cousin and forced me to make love to her.”
Then they both dispelled their pretended displeasure and grinned broadly. “Gramercy, my friend,” said the prince. “You have served me better than you know.”
“
God bless you, my prince,” replied Lord Brocas, and he clapped him on the shoulder with strong emotion.
Potenhale, still sitting by the fireside, smiled wryly to hear the prince discuss his new plans for the marriage. There was no fear that his father would object. The man who had taken a kingdom had the right to take his own bride. They would live in Guienne, perhaps in that selfsame city of Bordeaux—for the king had promised to make his firstborn the ruler of that province. The prince thanked Brocas again. He would have led him away to the wine cellars when he remembered that he was, after all, still the herald of another suitor. “Potenhale,” said he, for there was one more piece of news to relate.
The prince’s time in the cloister had not been spent exclusively in Joan’s arms. After the newly-betrothed couple had wasted many words on tender endearments, Joan called the children to come meet their future papa. She also called Margery, anxious to share the happy news with the maidservant who had shared her every sorrow.
Margery curtsied and felicitated her mistress. Her bright eyes sparkled with genuine joy. Considerately, she stepped back to leave the couple alone, but the prince stopped her and asked her to stay a while. He had pleaded his case with her mistress, and now he had some conversation to hold with her. Margery scanned his face in bewilderment. What could the Prince of Wales have to say to her?
*****
“
Potenhale,” said the prince. “This was her only word.” And pulling a crimson glove out of the breast of his jerkin, he tossed it to his faithful servant. “God give you joy.”
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1
Here is buried the most undefeatable William the Conqueror, Duke of Normandy, and King of England, and the builder of this house who died in the year 1087.