“Be that as it may,” said his wife, turning aside her beautiful face to hide the arch smile that flitted over it, “I have thy promise, have I not?”
“Thou hast it, sweetheart,” said Bertrand, kissing her. “Adieu till evening. I say not, ‘God be with thee,’ for He is with thee evermore.”
Tiphaine’s precaution came just in time; for though John of Gaunt and most of his knights welcomed Bertrand with the courtesy due to their noblest foe, there was one who bent on him a grim and lowering look, boding ill for the peace of the banquet.
This uncourteous knight was a tall, strong, bulky man (evidently a practised warrior), who bore himself with the haughtiness of one bent on exacting from every man the deference he deemed his due. He was presented to Du Guesclin as Sir Thomas of Canterbury, a name that Bertrand had not heard before, though history has now linked it inseparably with his own.
The moment the Breton met Canterbury’s defiant look he saw that this man meant to pick a quarrel with him, nor did the Englishman lose any time in setting about it.
“Health and long life to our honoured guest, Sir Bertrand du Guesclin!” cried the duke, standing up with a brimming goblet in his hand.
The rest cordially echoed the toast, but Sir Thomas’s voice was heard to add an unexpected postscript—
“Health and long life to Sir Bertrand du Guesclin, and may he ever have as dark a night to aid him to foray a camp!”
The sneering tone and insulting look left no doubt of the speaker’s meaning. The duke frowned slightly, and all faces clouded at so flagrant a breach of good breeding—all the more offensive because couched in terms so ambiguous as to make it difficult to resent. Only Bertrand was cool as ever.
“I thank thee for thy kind wish, good Sir Thomas,” said he; “and in truth, the dark night did me good service.”