“Take the fools out and have them whipped!”
But Bertrand cowed his mother for the once, and swore that no one should lay hands upon his men.
“Quiet, dogs,” he said, shaking his fist at them, “you have barked enough; let us have peace.”
He sprang down from the dais and gripped Jean de Xaintré’s hands.
“Old friend, you have not forgotten me?”
“No, no. Come, give me wine. Here’s to you with all my heart.”
XVIII
It was seven in the morning on the day of his riding to join the Marshal of Brittany at the Oak of Mivoie, and Bertrand stood warming himself before the great hall fire. He was in full harness—harness that he had burnished lovingly with his own hands, and the raised vizor of his bassinet showed a calm face and the eyes of a man who listened. Bertrand had broken fast alone in the hall, after keeping a vigil in the chapel with his sword and shield before him on the altar steps. He was to ride towards Dinan that day, for Xaintré had told him that Robin Raguenel had been chosen among the thirty, and Bertrand rode to seek him at La Bellière, and perhaps win a glimpse of Tiphaïne herself. His heart felt full of joy that morning, the joy of a man to whom life offers stirring days again.
Jean, the old butler, appeared at the door that closed the stairway leading to the private rooms. He looked half timidly at Bertrand, a tower of steel before the fire, and came forward slowly, coughing behind his hand.
“Well, Jean, how long will they keep me waiting? The days are short in March.”