miserable and therefore pitiable. And that, of course, was easily understandable; for of every ordinary person, even if it were only a washerwoman, provided she were healthy and formed like a human being, I was jealous.
As we crossed the dusty tourney field on our way to the Queen’s Tower and the boy told me that I was kind, I knew perfectly well that a year before I should never have dreamed of bringing him up to the castle in order that Berengaria and her ladies might enjoy his music. A year ago Berengaria, superbly beautiful, legitimate, Father’s favourite, adored by everyone who saw her, had been to me the epitome of all that was enviable and hateful. A year ago I should have listened to the boy’s music and selfishly delighted in the thought that here was something which I had enjoyed and she had missed.
II
What had happened in the last year to change my attitude towards my half sister was that she had fallen in love, so completely and so apparently hopelessly and in such a romantic kind of way that ever since the evening when she had told me about it I had found it possible to regard her almost as though she were a person in a song or a story.
At Pamplona, immediately after Easter each year, a trial of arms always known as the Spring Tourney was held and Father had, for years, made a point of inviting the most famous knights and of providing the most extravagant prizes, so the event was well renowned and well attended. Sancho, Berengaria’s brother (known as Sancho the Bold to distinguish him from Father who was called Sancho the Wise), took especial delight in producing, if possible, some specially famous contestant and, this year, had managed to bring to Pamplona one who was most often engaged in serious warfare and had little time to attend tournaments in outlying kingdoms—Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Aquitaine, eldest surviving son of the King of England.
In many courts his arrival would, I suppose, have caused a ripple of excitement amongst the ladies but it so happened that in our bower I was the only one who took any interest in jousting. Berengaria was a little short-sighted and found a tournament a blur which was watched at the cost of dust in the nostrils and in the hair and of din which made her head ache. Pila freckled very easily and preferred to stay indoors; and Catherine had once watched a tourney in which a knight of whom she was fond was killed. Only on the rarest occasions would they venture out into the ladies’ gallery, a section of the battlement overlooking the field and always punctiliously prepared with a canopy and flowers and pennons for our occupation. I loved the tourney, enjoyed watching all the famous men and learning their names, nicknames and histories, but I was self-conscious about being in the ladies’ gallery all by myself; I could imagine a visitor going home and saying that the gallery at Pamplona had nothing but a monkey in it! So unless my other half-sister, Blanche, happened to be home on a visit from her convent or one of the other ladies offered to accompany me, I usually watched from a far less favoured and conspicuous spot amongst the grooms and kennel boys and any scullion who had managed to evade his duties for an hour. Apart from being less noticeable, it was more interesting because the menials always knew everything about all the contestants and many a choice bit of gossip did I pick up as I watched.
On the third and last day of this Spring Tourney the day chanced to be warm and balmy and not too bright and Berengaria said that she thought it would please Father if we all ventured out; so, armed with scarves to wave and flowers to drop upon the victors, and followed by pages carrying cloaks in case it turned chilly and jugs of wine and little cakes for our refreshment, we set out from the Queen’s Tower to the tourney field and climbed into the ladies’ gallery.
The display that morning was most impressive and exciting and I watched enchanted. We saw
As we crossed the dusty tourney field on our way to the Queen’s Tower and the boy told me that I was kind, I knew perfectly well that a year before I should never have dreamed of bringing him up to the castle in order that Berengaria and her ladies might enjoy his music. A year ago Berengaria, superbly beautiful, legitimate, Father’s favourite, adored by everyone who saw her, had been to me the epitome of all that was enviable and hateful. A year ago I should have listened to the boy’s music and selfishly delighted in the thought that here was something which I had enjoyed and she had missed.
II
What had happened in the last year to change my attitude towards my half sister was that she had fallen in love, so completely and so apparently hopelessly and in such a romantic kind of way that ever since the evening when she had told me about it I had found it possible to regard her almost as though she were a person in a song or a story.
At Pamplona, immediately after Easter each year, a trial of arms always known as the Spring Tourney was held and Father had, for years, made a point of inviting the most famous knights and of providing the most extravagant prizes, so the event was well renowned and well attended. Sancho, Berengaria’s brother (known as Sancho the Bold to distinguish him from Father who was called Sancho the Wise), took especial delight in producing, if possible, some specially famous contestant and, this year, had managed to bring to Pamplona one who was most often engaged in serious warfare and had little time to attend tournaments in outlying kingdoms—Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Aquitaine, eldest surviving son of the King of England.
In many courts his arrival would, I suppose, have caused a ripple of excitement amongst the ladies but it so happened that in our bower I was the only one who took any interest in jousting. Berengaria was a little short-sighted and found a tournament a blur which was watched at the cost of dust in the nostrils and in the hair and of din which made her head ache. Pila freckled very easily and preferred to stay indoors; and Catherine had once watched a tourney in which a knight of whom she was fond was killed. Only on the rarest occasions would they venture out into the ladies’ gallery, a section of the battlement overlooking the field and always punctiliously prepared with a canopy and flowers and pennons for our occupation. I loved the tourney, enjoyed watching all the famous men and learning their names, nicknames and histories, but I was self-conscious about being in the ladies’ gallery all by myself; I could imagine a visitor going home and saying that the gallery at Pamplona had nothing but a monkey in it! So unless my other half-sister, Blanche, happened to be home on a visit from her convent or one of the other ladies offered to accompany me, I usually watched from a far less favoured and conspicuous spot amongst the grooms and kennel boys and any scullion who had managed to evade his duties for an hour. Apart from being less noticeable, it was more interesting because the menials always knew everything about all the contestants and many a choice bit of gossip did I pick up as I watched.
On the third and last day of this Spring Tourney the day chanced to be warm and balmy and not too bright and Berengaria said that she thought it would please Father if we all ventured out; so, armed with scarves to wave and flowers to drop upon the victors, and followed by pages carrying cloaks in case it turned chilly and jugs of wine and little cakes for our refreshment, we set out from the Queen’s Tower to the tourney field and climbed into the ladies’ gallery.
The display that morning was most impressive and exciting and I watched enchanted. We saw
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