“Eh? What?” The young man started quickly, for he had been dozing in his chair. “Oh! The wound?” following her glance at his arm. “’Tis naught. The scratch has but broken out anew.”
“It should be dressed,” asserted the little girl with concern. “I like not to see French blood flow.”
“She speaks truth, Bertrand,” interjected the older man. “A green wound tingles and burns, and there may be many a fray before us ere we behold Châlons. Here! I will be your squire for the nonce, and unbuckle your armour. ’Tis a good little maid!”
The young man addressed as Bertrand rose, and let his friend assist him to remove his armour, protesting against the need of it as he did so. Jeanne meantime brought a basin of water, 27 and when the knight had pushed back the sleeve of his doublet she washed the blood from the wound gently. Then, with all the deftness that Isabeau had taught her––for many were the wounded who had experienced their services––she applied a compress of oil, and bandaged the arm with bands of serge.
“I thank you, my little maid,” spoke the young man gratefully. “It does in truth feel better, and though but a scratch, was indeed painful. What is your name?”
“Jeanne, messire.”
“I will remember it, Jeanne. Who taught you to be so deft in such matters?”
“My mother, messire.” Jeanne blushed at being so interrogated.
“You have a gentle touch. If my arm does not heal quickly under such ministration it does not belong to Bertrand de Poulengy.”
Jeanne blushed again and withdrew quickly, carrying the basin with her. After placing a tall flagon, the wooden drinking cups, and the knife for cutting the bread upon the table she went to her godmother’s side, and sat down.