The hero smoothed his diminutive peak of a beard, and deigned to suffer her carefulness, like the inimitable peacock that he was.
“Honor is honor, madame. We men cannot sit at embroidery frames and make simples. It is the nature of man that he should thirst for war.”
A sudden stir among the servants at the lower end of the hall drew Bertrand’s attention from his brother’s boasting. His ear had caught the sound of hoofs and the pealing of a trumpet before the court-yard gate. The clattering of dishes and the babbling of tongues ceased in the great hall, for Plessis-Bertrand was a lonely house and travellers rarely came that way. Hopart and Guicheaux, taught caution by long, experienced exposure to all manner of hazards, took down their swords from the wall and went out into the court-yard, followed by some of Olivier’s men with torches. Olivier scoffed at the free companions’ carefulness.
“Some dirty beggar,” he said, “or a couple of strolling friars. Hi, Jacques, if they are players—and there be any wenches—show them in.”
Bertrand, who was wiser, and had no vanity to consider, saw that his sword was loose in its sheath.
They could hear Guicheaux shouting and a voice answering him. Then came the unbarring of the gate and the ring of hoofs upon the court-yard stones. The men were shouting and cheering in the court. Hopart’s hairy face appeared at the doorway of the hall. He so far forgot his manners for the moment as to bawl at his master on the dais.
“Beaumanoir’s herald, Messire Jean de Xaintré. They are going to maul the English at Mivoie’s Oak. The eagle must look to his claws!”
In came the servants, shouting and elbowing beneath a flare of torches, old Jean, the butler, flourishing his staff and trying to keep order and clear a passage. Hopart and Guicheaux were treading on the toes of Olivier’s men, spreading their fingers and grinning from ear to ear. Bertrand saw the flashing of a bassinet, the gay colors of a herald’s jupon, the Sieur de Beaumanoir’s arms quartered with those of Brittany. Some dozen men-at-arms followed in full harness, shouldering back the cook-boys and scullions.
The herald, an esquire of the Marshal’s, Jean de Xaintré by name, marched up the hall and saluted those at the high table.
“Greeting, madame and messires all; God’s grace be with you. I come from the Sieur de Beaumanoir, Marshal of Brittany. Thirty champions are to fight thirty English at the Oak of Mivoie on Passion Sunday. We need the Sieur de Guesclin’s son with us.”