“To choose the clumsy fool!” she said.
Jean de Xaintré had drawn his sword, and was holding the hilt crosswise before him.
“Swear, brother in arms, swear on the cross.”
“Ay, Jean, give me the oath.”
“Swear by Christ’s cross. The Oak of Mivoie on Josselin Moors, to fight Bamborough and his English on Passion Sunday.”
Bertrand lifted his hand, crossed himself, and took the oath.
“Before God—and our Lord—I swear,” he said.
Xaintré thrust his sword back into its sheath.
“Bertrand du Guesclin will not fail.”
Sieur Robert, sleepy and querulous, sat staring about him, and looking weakly at his wife. Jeanne du Guesclin had sunk back heavily in her chair, and was still biting her lips, and looking bitterly at Bertrand. Olivier had tossed down a cup of wine, and was braving it out as though the whole matter were the choicest farce. Guicheaux and Hopart were still stamping and shouting till Dame Jeanne started up in a blaze of fury, and shouted to her men, who crowded by the door: