The Vicomte de Bellière, stately seigneur that he was, kissed Bertrand’s cheek after the quaint fashion of those days.
“My house is your house, lad,” he said, “my servants your servants. I hold myself your debtor.”
For Bertrand, La Bellière had a strange and saddened sense of peace that night as he sat before the log fire and talked to the Vicomte of the combat at the Oak of Mivoie. La Bellière contrasted with the memories of his own home, for here they loved one another and knew no discords. The solar, warm with the firelight, had something sacred and beautiful within its walls. Bertrand felt the quiet dignity of the Raguenels’ life, the charm, the mellowness that made home home.
Tiphaïne sat opposite to him, her embroidery in her lap—a mass of green and gold—her eyes shining in the firelight, her hair coiled above the curve of her shapely neck. Her father’s chair was turned towards the fire, and he could see both his children, for Robin stood leaning against the chimney-hood, his face drawn and pinched when in repose.
It was pathetic the way the old man gloried in his son. He did not grudge him to the Breton cause, but let his pride soar over the lad’s honor. He told Bertrand the deeds of his own youth, beneficently garrulous, and swore that Robin would outshine his father. His handsome face mellowed as he sipped his wine and looked from one child to the other. Bertrand, silent, yet very reverent, watched Tiphaïne’s hands, too conscious all the while of Robin’s strained and jerky gayety. The lad’s heart was not happy in him, of that Bertrand felt assured.
“Come, messire, you have not seen Robin fight as yet.”
Bertrand smiled, a little sadly, and shook his head.
“He had his christening when our Countess retook the castle of Roche-D’Errien. You were one of the first in the breach, Robin, eh? Yes, yes, and Beaumanoir heard of the spirit you showed in that tussle down in the south, Ancenis—was it? What a head I have for names!”
Tiphaïne looked up from her work and gave her father the word.
“Aurai, to be sure, where that rogue Dagworth had his quittance from Raoul de Cahours. Robin won his spurs there. You shall see how the lad can fight, messire, at the Oak of Mivoie.”