“To be sure, he passed this way on the road to Concale. Mother of God, but I am glad you are come! Tiphaïne is above, playing chess with my father.”
Robin gave the spear and shield to one of the servants and embraced Bertrand when he dismounted. There was something comforting to the lad in having this strong man to bear him company.
“It will be a grim business, Bertrand. Croquart is to fight on Bamborough’s side, and Knowles and Calverly. Pssh! but who is afraid of the Flemish butcher? Come to my room; I will help you to disarm.”
He led Bertrand through the garden to his bedchamber joining the chapel, chattering all the way, with a restless smile on his boyish face. There was an exaggerated fervor in the lad’s gayety, and his eyes looked tired as though he had not slept. Bertrand saw that his hands trembled as he helped to unbuckle the harness, and that his mouth drooped when he was not talking.
“What a day for us, brother in arms!” he babbled, drawing out Bertrand’s sword and feeling the edge thereof with his thumb. “Croquart is a terrible fellow. But then Beaumanoir is as brave as a lion, and Tinteniac a powerful smiter, and you, Bertrand, are as good a man at your weapons as any.”
Bertrand looked hard at Robin, and forced a smile.
“We shall hold our own,” he said.
“You think so?” and the lad’s face brightened. “I have been running two miles each morning to better my wind. Look at my new armor, yonder. It is the cleverest German work. See the kneecaps, and the pallets to guard the armpits. It will take a good sword, Bertrand, to pierce it, eh?”
He seemed so eager to be cheered, despite his vivacity, that Bertrand felt troubled for the lad, and pitied him in his heart. He was wondering why Beaumanoir had chosen young Raguenel. He was tall and strong enough, but he had not the dogged look of a born fighter.
“You will do bravely enough, Robin,” he said. “Why, I have seen these English beaten many a day. We Bretons are the better men.”