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"I'm training them every day. Some day I shall know more about pigeons than any one else in the world." Ranulph had some ado not to smile; the speaker was so small and the tone so assured. "Perhaps you will," he said. "Are they as tame with others as they are with you?" "Some others," answered Peirol gravely. "People who are patient and know how to keep still. They like you."
As the birds alighted Lady Philippa was surrounded by the pretty creatures, and in a graceful little speech Ranulph presented to her Peirol as a Faun, the Master of the Pigeons, who had brought them to do homage to their sovereign lady. It was just the sort of informal pageant to delight the heart of Provence. No more dainty and captivating interlude had been seen at a festival.
"Peirol, the gooseherd's boy," the youngster replied composedly. "You're none of the family, are you?" "Only a jongleur. You have a great many pigeons here." "That's why I came in when I heard you playing. Does she Lady Philippa like pigeons?" "I think she does. In fact I know she does. Why?" "Grandfather said she would not care how many pigeons were killed to make pies.
Nothing, therefore, hindered Peirol from luring his pigeons to a point within hearing of his voice, and concealing himself in the thick leafage until Ranulph gave the signal for them to be brought upon the stage. Most of the afternoon was spent in watching and discussing Peirol and the pigeons.
A slaty-blue pigeon was already pecking at Ranulph's pointed scarlet shoe for a grain lodged there. The troubadour bent down, held out his hand, and the bird walked into it. He had played with birds often enough in his vagabond early years to know their feelings. But now a wave of merry voices broke upon the garden paths. "Peirol," he said, "I will see you again.
"That fellow asked what we had here," he said pointing to the panier, "and I told him when the pie was cut he would see." "Good!" laughed the troubadour. "That was a lucky answer, Peirol. And here comes the cook to make the pie." The cook, a stout beady-eyed little man, eyed the two somewhat sulkily, but went away grinning over Ranulph's jokes and fingering Ranulph's generous fee.
The men bungled in handling them; they evidently belonged to the castle, not to the troop. When they finally rose into the air, Pere Azuli, the veteran blue pigeon, and Rien-du-Tout, the little dun-colored stray Peirol had trained, were almost out of sight. The luckless Blanchette was lagging, and despite her frantic attempts to escape her enemy she was soon struggling in the falcon's grip.
The castle seemed to be in a somewhat disorderly state. Soldiers were playing dice by the gateway, and horses were stamping and feeding in the outer bailey. Peirol was evidently taken for the troubadour's servant, and an unkempt lad ushered them into a small room with a barred window, in one of the older towers.
This pie, according to the final verse of the song, would now be cut, so that the company could see exactly what a Plutonian banquet was like. The troubadour borrowed a dagger from a man-at-arms, made one or two slashes at the ornate crust of the pie and out flew four live pigeons. Then Peirol gave his birdlike call, and eluding the hands raised to catch them the pigeons swooped down to him.
Neither Ranulph nor Peirol gave so much as a glance at the captives, who were too much amazed to say anything at first, and quickly saw the danger of any betraying comment. The troubadour marched up to Biterres, asked permission to sing, and began a doggerel ballad about one Sir Orpheus and his magic harp.
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