“You are wounded,” he blurted, seizing the chance of breaking the reserve of this grim and silent man.
Bertrand picked up his hauberk, but did not look at Robin.
“Take my wallet,” he said, curtly.
The lad gave him a vacant stare.
“There, on the saddle. Get the folk within to fill it.”
Robin loitered a moment, but, finding that Bertrand paid no heed to him, he slunk away across the yard towards the place where Bertrand’s horse was tethered. When he returned, after having the wallet filled at the inn, Bertrand stood again in his own armor, with the eagle of the Du Guesclins on his arm. He pointed Robin back towards the horse.
“Strap the bag on; get water, and a feed of corn.”
“Messire Bertrand, I am not your groom.”
A look persuaded him. Robin parleyed no further, but turned to feed and water Du Guesclin’s horse. Bertrand came and watched him at the work, silent and unapproachable, ignoring Robin’s restless glances and his jerky and almost cringing manner.
“What am I to say to them at La Bellière?”