Tiphaïne understood the possible significance of the privilege, and hated the fawning bully with all the energy of her distrust. He gave her the wine and linen with his own hands, making the exchange slowly, that he might touch her fingers and discover the color and temper of her eyes. The self-same eyes were brown and full of flashes of sunlight, flashes that made Croquart mutter “vixen” under his breath.
Tinteniac was still lying propped on one elbow and hanging his head like a man bleeding in pride as well as in body. That one of the first knights in Brittany should have been trampled under foot by a butcher-boy from Flanders was an indignity that needed superhuman courage to rescue it from contempt. And yet the fine fortitude of the man triumphed. He retrieved his respect by meeting Tiphaïne with a smile.
“You see, child, the boaster has had his beating.”
She knelt down by him, knowing how much that smile and those few words had cost him.
“It was your wounds from Mivoie.”
“Perhaps,” and he looked at his broken sword, “I am beaten for the moment. Wine and linen! My shoulder feels like a piece of red-hot iron. Child, listen,” and he spoke in a whisper, “we are in this fellow’s power.”
Croquart had turned and moved away a few paces to shout orders to his men. Tiphaïne was supporting Tinteniac’s head and holding the wine-flask to his lips. As she bent over him he continued his whisperings in her ear, taking a drink from the wine-flask between each few words.
She colored and looked at him unwillingly, yet reading the honorable purpose in his eyes.
“I know this whelp’s ways, child. You are Tiphaïne de Tinteniac. Remember. It will make for your safety.”
“But, sire—”