She burst out weeping of a sudden, all her woman’s nature rushing out in tears.
“Take me, lording, I am your servant. No, I’ll not stay while you are fighting. Lording, lording!”
She leaned against his horse’s shoulder, and tried to clasp him with her arms. Bertrand was frowning and gnawing at his lip. His mood had changed; the sullen repinings of the night were past. He felt his sword sharp, his arm mighty.
“Well, you shall come,” he said.
“Lording, I am your servant.”
She kissed his hands and sprang away, smiling dimly through her tears. Yet her heart was not quiet despite her victory. Why was Bertrand so fierce and eager to fly at Hanotin’s throat? Was it because he was of the English party, or because—And Arletta clinched her fists and shivered.
So Bertrand and his men turned back towards the Aspen Tower, leaving the two women in the hut, with Simon and the Poitevin to guard them and the baggage-cattle. Bertrand took the lead once more, and loitered no longer like a sick stag behind the herd. Guicheaux had Jacques Bonhomme on a horse beside him, keeping a fast hold on the bridle, and improving the fellow’s loyalty by grimly reminding him that some one’s back would be the worse for their stirrup-straps if the Aspen Tower were not reached before night. The men were blithe and full of fettle. Monk Hanotin and his free lances were gentlemen of parts—brilliant rogues, so far as devilry could carry them. They did not ride with empty saddles. The peasant swore that they had the spoil of half a dozen castles and manors on their pack-horses.
As for Bertrand, the whole tone of life was changed in him since he had turned back from that patch of open land in Broceliande’s heart. The mopes had fallen away; he had a deed in view; the day was justified by its endeavor. Some strange stroke of chance had beaten him back towards the woman who had shown him his own soul. He was riding to save Tiphaïne—Tiphaïne, the child who had made a man of him at Rennes. He recalled her as he had known her then—sweet, winsome, passionate, generous in her championing of his ugliness. He saw her as she had stood but yesterday on the altar steps, brave, scornful, haloed round with a lustre of gold. All the deep pathos of the scene smote home to him—dead Brunet’s body, the pest-stricken home, old Jehanot shivering behind the hangings. Why, he had been no better then than this bully of Croquart’s, this Hanotin whom he was thirsting to slay! Great God, how a man might discover his true self in the likeness of another!
Bertrand awoke over the peril of the child he had loved of old. He was as hot to save her as though he were still her champion at Rennes. Tiphaïne in Hanotin’s ruffian hands! Bertrand set his teeth and raged at the thought of it. He must reach the Aspen Tower before the patched gate fell.
Arletta rode at Bertrand’s side that morning, biting her red lips, and tasting the bitterness of her own reflections. A woman is quick in the telling of a man’s moods, and his actions speak for him in lieu of words. With Arletta jealousy was an ever-smouldering passion. It lurked at all times behind her pale and sinful face, and in the restless deeps of her troubled eyes. She had been known to stab fat Gwen in the arm because the woman had dared to laugh at Bertrand before his men. Arletta could brook no rivalry in this poor, honorless conceit of hers. She loved Bertrand, loved him like a mother, a mistress, and a slave—was proud of his great strength and of the truth that he belonged to her.