“What you will.”
Robin lifted up the bucket for the horse to drink. His eyes were half dim with tears, his mouth weak and petulant.
“Won’t you help me, Messire Bertrand?”
“To keep up the lie, eh!”
Robin hung his head.
“You must know how we won the day at Mivoie, and how Sir Robin Raguenel saved the honor of Brittany.”
Robin winced, flushed like a girl, but stood listening while Bertrand told him all that had passed at Mivoie: who were slain, who were wounded and taken prisoners, how Tinteniac and Beaumanoir fought, and how Montauban broke the English ranks. Robin heard all without one flash of pride or gladness. Humiliation was heavy on him, and he had no joy in this Breton victory. When Bertrand had made an end, he stood with the empty bucket dangling in his hand, listless, and without will.
“Bertrand”—Du Guesclin’s foot was in the stirrup—“where—where are you going?”
The strong man drew a deep breath, but mastered himself in an instant.
“Where God wills,” he said.