They hung round him like a couple of great children, eager and devoted.
“Messire, courage, you are too tough for the English dogs.”
“Keep up your heart, captain, and give them the clean edge.”
They ran for a mile along the road beside him, holding his stirrup-straps and looking up into his face. And theirs was the only heartening Bertrand had when he rode out to fight for the Breton poor at the Oak of Mivoie on Josselin Moors.
Bertrand’s courage warmed again as he mounted the moors and felt the blue sky over him and the broad Breton lands before his face. He forgot Olivier’s sneers and his mother’s coldness, and the way they had let him go uncheered. The truth remained that Beaumanoir had chosen him, and that the chance had come for which he had waited. That day, also, he might see Tiphaïne again, give her the good news, and tell her of the change that had been working in his manhood.
Bertrand was in fine fettle by the time he struck the windings of the Rance, and saw the river flashing below the cliffs and glimmering amid the green. He tossed his spear and sang as the towers of Dinan came in view, the gray walls girding the little town, with the Ranee running in the narrow meads below. All the thickets were purpling with the spring. The bare aspens glittered, the clouds sailed white over the wind-swept Breton town.
But Dinan had no call for Bertrand that March day. He rode on, still singing, happy at heart, watching for the tall chimneys of the Vicomte’s house, finding a quick, strange joy at the thought of seeing Tiphaïne again. Bertrand was not a Provençal rhapsodist. He could not write love songs to a woman’s lips, but look bravely into her face he could, and crown her with the homage that only great hearts know.
Soon the turrets and carved chimneys rose up amid the trees, smoke floating with the wind, the Vicomte’s banner slanting from its staff. Bertrand rode up amid a swirl of March-blown leaves and blew his horn before the gate. The servants who came out to him knew the eagle on his shield, and Robin himself met Bertrand in the court.
“Messire du Guesclin, welcome indeed!” and he held out his hands to take Bertrand’s spear and shield, his beaming face a greeting in itself.
“Xaintré told me you were chosen.”