d courtship is some whiles best policy.
But one thought had sunk itself in his distracted brain since noting
what flower his beloved carried, how that Sancie was Flower o' the Peach
and be the others what they might she was the flower of all flowers to
him. He had no knowledge of the complicated metres with which Provencal
troubadours played so deftly, but he had been in Italy and had marked
how the peasants bandied back and forth their bright _stornelli_ as
though the quick play were that of ball, the thought striking the fancy
and deftly handled as it leapt from one to the other of the players.

Therefore he modestly announced that he would strive to imitate in the
_langue d'oc_ certain of these _stornelli a fiore_ trusting that their
rudeness and brevity might be forgiven.[7]

Queen Eleanor was crowned with roses and was throned beneath a canopy of
those royal flowers. To her Richard, accompanying himself upon the lute,
addressed his first _stornello_:

"Flower o' the Briar--
Though high on her trellis the Rose o' the Briar,
Sits supreme o'er the garden my heart clambers higher."

"How may that be," laughed Eleanor, "if I am 'supreme o'er the garden?'
'Tis enough for me; but I see not how you can o'ertop that compliment.
Let me hear what you have to say to my sister of France."

Marguerite, as befitting her name, wore daisies, and squaring his
shoulders Richard sang lustily,

"Flower o' the Marguerite;
Queen of the garden, fair Reine Marguerite,
If my heart were not captive 't would lie at your feet."

"'Tis Beatrice then who holds your heart in thrall?" bantered the
queen, for she was malicious enough to plunge him in further difficulty.
Here also was a coil for Beatrice was jealous of Sancie's beauty, and
her lover, Charles of Anjou, sat beside her quick to resent any
aspersion upon his mistress.

Beatrice, like a bacchante, had bound her brows with vine leaves one of
which Charles now broke off and handed to the competing minstrel. With a
gallant bow and a smile which atoned for the quizzical reservation,
Richard sang,

"Flower o' the Vine;
For you, merry Charles, the chaplet of vine
'T is a guerdon all envy, so pray grant me mine."

Laughter resounded from every side of the pleasance mingled with cries,
"Your flower! Name your favourite flower."

Then Richard knelt before Sancie, who hid her face behind the blossoms
which so well matched her blushes, and sang f