Prince Lyon of Clarence and the Prince Edmond of York were playing chess in a long gallery that overlooked the Thames and the orchards on its banks.
The window behind them was open, and the sun struck fire from the leopards of England quartered on the crimson glass.
The chess men were large and right delicately carved in pure ivory and ivory dyed scarlet; the two Princes bent their gay faces over the board, and the debonair breeze from the river ruffled their fair amber-coloured locks; and at the feet of Prince Lyon slept a fine white hound wearing a collar of silver bells; while Prince Edmond was arrayed in a long gown of green samite, edged with vair, that was bright as the green of water-sedges against the dark tapestry of his chair.
Presently Prince Lyon looked up at his brother.
“There is Johan,” he said in a meaning tone.
The other smiled, and moved his vermilion king.
“Johan is cast down,” he answered, “for he walks with a laggard step.”
Slowly the King's fourth son came down the gallery; his hands were clasped behind him, and he looked in a destroubled way at the floor; his houplande of dark red was embroidered all over with golden roses that glittered as he moved; his appearance was of well-faring splendour. When he saw his brothers he smiled grudgingly, and was passing on, but the elder called out to him.
“Johan, by charity, you look sad.”
And sour,” added Prince Lyon, raising a fragrant face.
Prince Johan paused and glanced at him over his shoulder with soft, dark eyes; he was different from these princes, being of a brown complexion, and of a bearing more remote and reserved; and it appeared from his person that he was not so gentle and lovable in his nature; yet he was a most beautiful knight, taller than his brothers, and nearly as tall as the King, though not yet nineteen years of age.
“Why did you call me?” he asked. “God wot it is no great matter to see you twain play the chess.”
“It is something to see you look so sad, by the mass,” returned Prince Edmond cheerfully.
“I am not sad,” Johan of Gaunt said, and frowned and flushed.
The elder Prince looked at him kindly.
“Johan,” he answered, “truly she thinks well of you—she said as much to Lyon and to me.”
Prince Johan came to the chess-table and stood towering above his brothers.
“What did she say?” he asked, and it seemed that he trembled in great ruth.
“She was standing by the window with her dulcimere and the story of Octavian in her hand, and she looked up at us suddenly. 'Pardi,' she said, 'I think so well of your brother that I would put him to the test, and yet I am afraid.'”
The lover drew a passionate breath.
“There are no more dragons” he murmured.
“There are giants in Cornwall,” said Prince Lyon. “A lady might think somewhat of a giant—but there are dragons somewhere, I wot—maybe in France.”
“Truly she despises me,” answered Johan hopelessly, “or why does she say—'I am afraid?'”
“She dreads that you may come to harm,” suggested Edmond.
“Alas, she is the most debonair and marvellous lady in the world, and her two eyes look through me and see that I am not worthy.”
He sighed, and stared beyond his brothers at the glittering waters of the lovely river.
“There is a new knight come to court,” said Prince Edmond. “Sir Hew's son, and mad to do a feat.”
“Speak not of feats,” said Johan. “I am weary of all displays of arms.”
“The new knight is arrogant and does not know his manners yet,” said Lyon; “and I tell you this, an hour agone he asked the lady Blaunche for a favour to wear at the tourney.”
Johan of Gaunt stared at them mutely.
“He!” he cried after a moment.
Prince Lyon moved, shaking his purple silk robe into shudders of light.
“Even he.”
“Even he,” nodded Prince Edmond,
“What is his name?” asked Prince Johan with a flush of dark distress,
“'Tis Sir Maryon, son of Sir Hew, newly come from Picardy.”
“Did she” began Johan faintly.
“By Ovid, I think she gave him nothing—was it likely? Would he have asked if he had known—anything?”
“Here he approaches,” said Prince Lyon with a little smile. “Maybe because the Lady Blaunche comes this way from the chapel—does he know that already? Ah, dan Cupid!”
“Oh, peace!” murmured Johan in a tone of anguish; he turned his dark head and gazed passionately at the two knights who were entering the long gallery.
Sir Hew was a tall and well-favoured man, but his son, Sir Maryon, though well enough, was over fair and had a look of weakness; but to Johan's jealous eyes he loomed a very Phœbus, scattering light and conquering.