Arletta’s dreads were quickly justified. The “free companions” were to camp in the aspen wood, for madame was to be guarded till her father’s banner should come dancing through the woods. Arletta herself was sent to the kitchen to cook and scour with Barbe and Gwen. The women began to jeer at her before her face, seeing how the wind blew, and that Messire Bertrand du Guesclin had changed his coat. He served and carved at madame’s table, acted as seneschal, took her commands, and saw them followed.
As for the Black Death, it seemed to have spent its fury in the place, for it laid no hands on Bertrand’s men. Perhaps their wild life saved them, the sun and storm that had tanned and hardened them against disease. There was work and enough for them in regarnishing the Aspen Tower under Bertrand’s orders. He sent them hunting in Broceliande to bring back food for Tiphaïne’s larder. To keep the rest busy he ordered the building of a new gate from timber stored in one of the out-houses, and the strengthening of the palisades closing the garden from the moat. The men worked willingly, for Bertrand had given them all the plunder they had taken from Hanotin. Not a sou would he touch; the days of his thieving were at an end. Then there were the prisoners to be looked to in the guard-room, wounded men to be cared for, bread to be baked, strayed cattle to be sought out in the woods. A lord’s house in those days was a little town within itself, fitted for every common craft, supplying its own needs by the labor of its inmates’ hands.
Bertrand went about his duties with a shut mouth and a purposeful reserve. Even his rough fellows felt that he had changed, for he no longer laughed with them and joined in their jesting. Like a masker he had thrown off his buffoon’s dress and taken to the habit that was his by right. The men whispered together over Bertrand’s transfiguration, but took no liberties in his presence. Messire Bertrand was still their hero; his slaying of Hanotin was like to become an epic deed among them; moreover, the generous squandering of his share of the plunder had made his whims and moods respected.
As for Arletta, she went sullenly about her work, wincing at the sneers she had from Gwen and Barbe, and hating to be stared at by the men. Often she would creep away into some quiet corner and brood bitterly over her lost power. Bertrand but rarely spoke to her, and then the careful kindness of his words stung her more sharply than a whip. He was no longer rough and tender by turns, and Arletta would have welcomed blows only to feel his strong arms once more about her body. Bertrand avoided her, kept his distance when there was no escape, and even spoke to her of Ancenis, where her father was growing prosperous on forging armor for the wars. How easy it all seemed to Messire Bertrand! It was a man’s way, she imagined, to be able to forget everything in three days, and to turn his back upon the past.
Tiphaïne and Bertrand seemed often together. They walked in the garden, rode hunting in the woods or in the fields to give Tiphaïne’s hawks a flutter. Bertrand served madame at her table in the hall, and slept across the chapel door at night. Arletta exaggerated all these happenings in her heart.
The fourth morning after the saving of the tower she saw Bertrand cross the court as she stood in the kitchen entry half hidden by the door. Bertrand was alone, and, slipping out, she followed him, driven to dare his displeasure by the bitterness of neglect. Bertrand’s foot was on the first step of the solar stairway when he heard the rustle of a woman’s skirt.
“Lording, lording.”
He turned, half angry, half ashamed, and stood looking down into her white and passionate face.
“Why, Letta”—and he tried to smile—“what is it, wench?”
His coolness stung her. Why, Bertrand had loved her once—had told her so with his own lips! Desperate in her dread, she flung out her arms and clung about his neck.