“They tell me Croquart has a giant’s arm.”
“Yes, from handling the butcher’s cleaver.”
“Then, sire, a gentleman would shame himself by taking blows from Croquart’s arm?”
Tinteniac’s eyes expressed amusement at the vehemence with which she spoke. It was good to see the child, so ran his stately reflection, flame up over the wrongs of the Breton poor.
“Madame, would you have me search from Dol to Nantes in order to break a butcher-boy’s skull?”
“Are you sure you would break it, sire?”
“No”—and he laughed with a generous frankness that could not be quarrelled with—“the butcher-boy might prove himself the better man. At Mivoie he was the best champion the English had.”
Tiphaïne flashed a look straight into Tinteniac’s eyes.
“Well, sire, I should honor the man who put an end to Croquart’s savagery.”
Tinteniac colored and gave her one of his most stately bows.