He rapped the words out as though the uttering of them gave him relief. Robin skipped forward to complete the sacrifice. He was still possessed by a blind and selfish joy.
“I will help to make the tale sound honest for you,” he said.
Bertrand’s shoulders heaved.
“You are quick enough with your wits,” he answered. “Come, listen to me. I know this road; there is a low inn not five miles from here, set back in an empty quarry. Hide there till we have fought at Mivoie.”
Bertrand was curt and peremptory enough; Robin understood him, and looked sullenly at the grass.
“What if you are killed?” he asked.
The utter coolness of the question staggered Bertrand, despite the revelations of the last hour.
“Who thinks of being killed!”
“Croquart will strike at you.”
“And am I afraid of Croquart? If I were to fall the trick would be discovered. You have scented that out, eh, you little fox! No, lie quiet in your hole till I ride back.”