“Writing Latin prayers,” she mocked. “Were you Emperor of the West, Lord Balthasar, would you do that?”
He frowned. “I am not such a holy man as Melchoir.”
Ysabeau laughed. “Were you my husband would you do that?”
His fresh fair face flushed rose colour. “This is among the things I may not even fancy.”
She looked out of the window; her dress was low and loosened about the shoulders, by cause of the heat, she said, but she loved to make a pageant of her beauty. Purposely she was silent, hoping Balthasar would speak; but he stood, without a word, leaning against the tapestry.
“Oh God!” she said at last, without turning her head, “I loathe Frankfort!”
His eyes glittered, but he made no answer.
“Were I a man I would not be so tame.”
Now he spoke. “Princess, you know that I am sick for
