Gaillard laughed, and glanced at Etoile. “That is our Lady of the Woods, sire, a saint whom the boors worship. Yet I might swear that she has more than her scourge, her stone bed, and her cross in that cell.” Etoile’s black eyes covered Denise. “Does a saint carry such a fleece of hair,” she sneered. “This man-chase pleases me better and better, sire. See how Madame Dorcas is standing on live coals!” She laughed, and looked at Denise, tilting her chin, her eyes inquisitively insolent. “Have the door opened, sire, and let us see what her man is like.” Peter of Savoy glanced shrewdly at Etoile. “How fair women love one another! Rosamond’s cup is always ready to the hand.” Denise had drawn back close to the door of the cell, and stood leaning against the wall under the shadow of the overhanging thatch. Her hair seemed to burn under that band of shade like stormy sunlight under a ragged cloud. Her hands were folded over her bosom, her brown eyes fixed on the white forehead of Etoile’s horse. There was no furtiveness about her face, no flickering of a half confessed shame. The open space between her and Gaillard’s men seemed to symbolise something, perhaps an awe of her that made these rough men of the sword hold back. Etoile pointed with her bow towards the door, and her eyes challenged Denise. “Perhaps our Holy Sister will satisfy us with an oath,” she said. “For the lips of a saint cannot utter a lie.” Denise answered her nothing, and Etoile’s face darkened maliciously under her golden caul. “Will you lay me a wager, sire?” and she tapped Peter of Savoy on the knee with her bow. His eyes gleamed at her. “A star is made wise by the stars; I keep an open mind.” “Then have the door opened, and let us see whether this good woman cannot hide a lover.” Peter of Savoy nodded towards the cell, and Gaillard wheeled his horse, catching a glimpse of Denise’s white and waiting face. “Roland, Jean, Guillaume!” His strident voice rang out. The three men stood forward with their eyes fixed on him. Gaillard pointed with his sword to the door of the cell. “Open it.” They turned to obey him, one of the fellows forcing the door back with the point of his sword, all three of them upon the alert with their shields forward as though expecting the rush of armed men. The door had swung back showing nothing but a shadowy interior, a dark and deep recess in the midst of the day’s sunlight. The three men craned their heads over their shields. Gaillard heeled his horse forward, and ordered the men aside. Stooping low in the saddle he looked into the cell, his face lean and intent, his eyes like the eyes of a suspicious dog. At first he could distinguish nothing. Then he laughed very softly, straightened in the saddle, and looked down at Denise. “Perhaps, Sister, your bed works miracles!” he said.