"And why not to fight?" asked the Queen, the light of an untried
emotion brightening in her eyes. "Do you think I cannot bear the weight
of mail, or sit a horse, or handle a sword as well as many a boy of
twenty who will be there in the thick of battle? And if I and my court
ladies can bear the weariness as well as even the weakest man in the
King's army, and risk a life as bravely, and perhaps strike a clean
blow or drive a straight thrust for the Holy Sepulchre, shall our souls
have no good of it, because we are women?"

As she spoke, her arm lay across the table, and her small strong hand
moved energetically with her speech, touching the monk's sleeve. The
fighting blood of the old Duke was in her veins, and there was battle
in her voice. Bernard looked up.

"If you were always what you are at this moment," he said, "and if you
had a thousand such women as yourself to ride with you, the King would
need no other army, for you could face the Seljuks alone.

"But you think that by the time I have to face them my courage will
have cooled to woman's tears, like hot vapour on a glass."

She smiled, but gently now, for she was pleased by what he had said.

"You need not fear," she continued, before he had time to answer her.
"We shall not bear ourselves worse than men, and there will be grown
men there who shall be afraid before we are. But if there were with us
a leader of men, I should have no fear. Men will fight for the King,
they will shed their blood for Eleanor of Guienne, but they would die
ten deaths at the bidding of--"