Robin turned to him, ready to be accused at any moment of being a liar and a coward.
“Is it true what they are saying of Bertrand du Guesclin?”
“True! What are they saying, messire?”
Robin was as red as the wine in his cup.
“Why, that Bertrand played the coward and never came to Mivoie.”
Raoul de Resay’s eyes marked Robin’s flushed cheeks and the tremulous movement of his lips. He misread the meaning of the lad’s hot color, thinking that it was the badge royal of a generous heart.
“No, by God, Raoul, Bertrand du Guesclin did not play the coward! His horse fell lame near Loudeac. I left him in the woods there, and have not seen him since.”
Yeolande of Lehon touched Robin’s arms.
“I like to see you flush up like that,” she said, “when a brother in arms is slandered.”
“Slandered! Who spoke of slander, madame?” And Raoul de Resay took the taunt to heart. “I have known cowards, but Bertrand du Guesclin is not one of them.”