‘I cannot rob her of what she never had,’ said King Richard; ’but I will repeat my question if you do not remember it.’

‘No need, sire,’ replied the lady, and told him all she knew.  She added, ’Sire and my brother, if I may dare to say so, I think the Queen has a grief.  Madame Jehane made no pretensions—­I hope I do her full justice—­but remember that the Queen made none either.  You took her of your royal will; she was conscious of the honour.  But of what you gave you took away more than half.  The Queen loves you, Richard; she is a most miserable lady, yet there is time still.  Make a wife of your queen, brother Richard, and all will be well.  For what other reason in the world did Madame Jehane what she did?  For love of an old man whom she had never seen, do you think?’

The King’s brow grew dark red.  He spoke deliberately.  ’I will never make her my wife.  I will never willingly see her again.  I should sin against religion or honour if I did either.  I will never do that.  Let her go to her own country.’

‘Sire, sire,’ said Joan, ‘how is she to do that?’

‘As she will,’ says the King; ’but, for my part of it, with every proper accompaniment.’

‘Sire, the dowry—­’

‘I return it, every groat.’

‘The affront—­’

‘The affront is offered.  I prevent a greater affront.’

‘Is this fixed, Richard?’

‘Irrevocably.’

‘She loves you, sire!’

‘She loves ill.  Get up on your feet.’

‘Sire, I beseech you pity her.’

’I pity her deeply.  I think I pity everybody with whom I have had to deal.  I do not choose to have any more pitiful persons about me.  Fare you well, sister.  Go, lest I pity you.’  She pleaded.

‘Ah, sire!’

‘The audience is at an end,’ said the King; and the Queen of Sicily rose to take leave.

* * * * *

He kept his word, never saw Berengere again but once, and that was not yet.  What remained for him to do in Syria he did, patched up a truce with Saladin, saw to Henry of Champagne’s election, to Guy of Lusignan’s establishment; dealt out such rewards and punishments as lay in his power, sent the two queens with a convoy to Marseilles.  Then, two years from his hopeful entry into Acre as a conqueror, he left it a defeated man.  He had won every battle he had fought and taken every city he had invested.  His allies had beaten him, not the heathen.

They were to beat him again, with help.  The very skies took their part.  He was beset by storms from the day he launched on the deep, separated from his convoy, driven from one shore to another, fatally delayed.  His enemies had time to gather at home:  Eustace of Saint-Pol, Beauvais, Philip of France; and behind all these was John of Mortain, moving heaven and earth and them to get him a realm.  By a providence, as he thought it, Richard put into Corsica under stress