Johanna said, briskly, “Oh, I think this is much better.” Edythe and the other waiting women led in the porters, and Lilia pointed out where they should put the trunks and chests. After the cramped deck of the galley the tent seemed huge, and Edythe felt like leaping and dancing in and out of the poles that braced up the canvas. The last sunlight streamed in through the cloth, veiled, mysterious. The wind puffed up the fabric in a constant ruffling. The floors were covered with thick woven stuff, rapidly becoming filthy under the trampling feet. Another train of men hauled in more trunks. Outside, the raucous crowd still shouted; Richard had issued them all huge rations of wine and they were roaring around bonfires and yelling fight songs and Te Deums and pledges to die for God. Inside the tent, Berengaria, flanked by her women, went to one side and plunked down on a stool. Her sunburned face was thin with fatigue, her long gown dirty. She crossed herself, which she did a dozen times an hour.
