The duke’s herald was at once admitted by the old commandant, to whom he announced himself as the bearer of a message to Du Guesclin from the Duke of Lancaster.
“Thou wouldst speak with Messire Bertrand thyself?” asked De Penhoën, with the ghost of a smile flickering over his iron face.
“Even so,” said the herald, with a dignity befitting his office, then one of the most important in existence.
“Go down there and thou wilt find him,” said the old Breton, pointing to the courtyard with a grin that puckered his hard visage till it looked like the carved spout of a cathedral.
Down went the herald, to find himself amid a throng of rough-looking, bare-armed fellows, who were chopping up one of the captured carts to replenish their scanty stock of firewood. After looking in vain for any sign of Du Guesclin among the ragged, dirty gang, he was fain to apply to a short, sturdy, phenomenally ugly man in a greasy leathern jerkin (with his head and left arm bandaged), who, while directing the labours of the rest, seemed himself to work as hard as any one.
“I pray thee, good fellow,” said he condescendingly, “tell me where I may find Sir Bertrand du Guesclin; I have to speak with him.”
“Speak on, then,” said the wood-chopper, wiping his face; “I am he.”
“Thou?” echoed the herald, recoiling. “Thou the great Du Guesclin? So help me St. George, thou look’st more like a robber!”
“Dar’st thou call our Bertrand a robber, malapert knave?” roared one of the wood-cutters. “Say it again, and we will strip off those gay plumes of thine, and thy own jackass hide to boot.”
“Hold, lads! a herald is sacred,” said Bertrand, with a jovial laugh. “And, in sooth, he has hit the mark in calling me robber, since I plundered his master’s camp last night. If thou believe me not, Sir Herald, look if this be like one of Du Guesclin’s blows.”