Dame du Guesclin fidgeted with the kerchief pouch at her girdle and frowned.
“Who, child, and where?”
“The man on the stool, with the dog.”
“That is Bertrand, my sweeting.”
“And who is Bertrand?”
“Why, child, my son.”
Tiphaïne’s great eyes were turned full upon the elder woman’s face. Lady Jeanne was red despite her pride, and ill at ease under the child’s pestering.
“Why does he not sit with us on the dais?”
“Why? Well, little one”—and the Lady Jeanne laughed—“Bertrand is a strange lad. He is not like Olivier or your brother Robin.”
Tiphaïne had been scanning the handsome face above her, with its curling lips and its contracted brows. There was something that puzzled her about the Lady Jeanne. Why had she turned so red, why did her eyes look angry, and why did she tap with her foot upon the floor?