“Do!” and Bertrand’s lips curled as he unbuckled his graves and cuishes; “save you from shaming the folk who love you by taking your place at the Oak of Mivoie.”
Had the veriest spark of nobleness been left alive in him that moment, Robin would have risen up with generous shame, compelled towards courage by Bertrand’s chivalry. But the meaner powers were in the ascendant, and the dread of death made him blind to his own littleness. Even Bertrand saw the look of relief upon his face as he scrambled up, evading Du Guesclin’s eyes.
“Messire Bertrand, this is too good of you—”
A contortion of contempt swept over Bertrand’s face. The lad was pleased to approve the sacrifice and mildly call it “good.”
“Don’t thank me, messire. Take off your armor. We are much of a size. The fesse of silver shall make a show at Mivoie.”
Robin obeyed him, secret exultation stifling shame.
“I shall not forget this, Bertrand.”
“Nor shall I!”
“Beaumanoir will think that something has hindered you.”
“Ah, no doubt.”