Tinteniac’s tone had the whistle of a whip.
“Sire, William the Norman’s mother was a tanner’s daughter, and yet he became a king.”
“I said, sir, the Flemish butcher-boy.”
Croquart’s eyes gleamed for the moment like a cat’s. Tinteniac’s face roused the plebeian passion in him.
“By your grace, sire, we will see whether the Sieur de Tinteniac or the Flemish butcher-boy is the better man.”
“That, perhaps, is too great an honor.”
“An honor, sire, that my sword will compel you to confer.”
Tiphaïne looked anxiously at Tinteniac. He was but half armed, because the wounds he had won at Mivoie would not yet bear the weight of heavier harness, nor would his pride suffer him to confess the disadvantage. It was Tiphaïne who read his thoughts and said what Tinteniac would not say.
“Sire, you are but half armed, and Messire Croquart is in his battle harness.”
She glanced at the Fleming, and he felt the fearless influence of her eyes.