In a dimly conscious fashion, I wondered whether Castleman could possibly have meant the Duke of Burgundy when he told Yolanda that her father would soon be at Peronne.

I could find no other meaning for his words, and I was almost ready to believe that the brown-eyed, laughing Yolanda was none other than the far-famed Mary of Burgundy, whose tiny hand was sought by every nation of Europe having a marriageable king or prince.
Kings in their dotage and princes in their nonage wooed her.

Old men and babes eagerly sought the favor of this young girl, and stood ready to give their gold, their blood, and the lives of their subjects on even the shadow of a chance to win her.

The battle-field and the bower alike had been wooing-ground for her smiles.

After all this, she had been affianced to the Dauphin of France, and her father would bring the marriage about within a few weeks.