“Ah—!”
“You look so strong, too. I like you better than Olivier. You are stronger than he is, and then—I love Dame Jake.”
Bertrand glanced at her as though he thought for the moment that she might be mocking him, but the look in the child’s eyes spoke to him of her sincerity. At the same instant he saw Olivier standing on the dais, beckoning and calling to Tiphaïne as she sat at Bertrand’s feet amid the rushes, the glow from the fire shining on the gold-work in her dress.
“Tiphaïne, Tiphaïne, come away, or the ogre will eat you. Prosper is going to play to us on the cithern, and sing us the lay of Guingamor.”
The child pretended not to hear him. She had caught the hot flush that had rushed over Bertrand’s face; nor was she tricked by Olivier’s insolence. That pert youth, seeing that she did not stir, came running down the hall, winking at the servants as though to hint to them how much finer a fellow he was than his shabby brother. Bertrand sat stolidly on his stool, staring into the fire and snapping his fingers at Dame Jake.
“Tiphaïne, you must come back to the high table. Bertrand hates girls; they always laugh at his crooked legs.”
He shot a sneer at his brother and held out his hand to the child, who was still seated on the floor. Bertrand was grinding his teeth together, and striving to master the great yearning in him to swing his fist in the little fop’s face.
“I do not want you, Messire Olivier du Guesclin.”
“Ho, but you cannot sit among the grooms and servants. Bertrand does not matter.”
Tiphaïne rose up very quietly and looked Olivier straight in the face.