“If thou wilt, thou wilt,” cried Mary petulantly. “Indeed it were plain that thou be a De Montfort; that race whose historic bravery be second only to their historic stubbornness.”
Bertrade de Montfort laughed, and kissed her friend upon the cheek.
“Mayhap I shall find the brave Roger de Conde again upon the highroad to protect me. Then indeed shall I send back your five knights, for of a truth, his blade is more powerful than that of any ten men I e’er saw fight before.”
“Methinks,” said Mary, still peeved at her friend’s determination to leave on the morrow, “that should you meet the doughty Sir Roger all unarmed, that still would you send back my father’s knights.”
Bertrade flushed, and then bit her lip as she felt the warm blood mount to her cheek.
“Thou be a fool, Mary,” she said.
Mary broke into a joyful, teasing laugh; hugely enjoying the discomfiture of the admission the tell-tale flush proclaimed.
“Ah, I did but guess how thy heart and thy mind tended, Bertrade; but now I see that I divined all too truly. He be indeed good to look upon, but what knowest thou of him?”
“Hush, Mary!” commanded Bertrade. “Thou know not what thou sayest. I would not wipe my feet upon him, I care naught whatever for him, and then—it has been three weeks since he rode out from Stutevill and no word hath he sent.”
“Oh, ho,” cried the little plague, “so there lies the wind? My Lady would not wipe her feet upon him, but she be sore vexed that he has sent her no word. Mon Dieu, but thou hast strange notions, Bertrade.”