Bertrand straightened in the saddle, a flash of fierceness crossing his face, as though one of his men had called him a coward. Bending forward, he held his poniard at the peasant’s throat, while Hopart and another gripped him by the arms and shoulders.
“Swear, Jacques Bonhomme! Swear, swear!”
The man looked stupidly into Bertrand’s eyes as though fascinated.
“Swear, lording?”
“That you have spoken the truth.”
The fellow shook off Hopart’s grip and crossed himself.
“By Holy Jesu, Our Lady, and St. Ives,” he said, “I swear!”
Bertrand clapped his poniard back into its sheath.
“Good,” he said. “God see to it, for your throat’s sake, that you are not a liar. How many men had Hanotin with him?”
“Twenty, I should say, lording—English, Flemings, Gascons—cut-purses enough.”