“Want, you monkey! Comfits and fruit for the Lady Tiphaïne. Quick with you, or I’ll break one of your own platters over your head!”
The pantler still demurred, but, being a little man, he surrendered when Bertrand caught him by the girdle.
“Go your ways, Messire Bertrand,” he said. “Take the key, but your father shall hear of it. I am an honest servant, St. Padarn’s bones upon it.”
“St. Padarn be ducked!” quoth the thief, taking the key, and leaving the pantler to his platters.
In a few minutes he had flung the key into the kitchen, and was back in the garden pouring his spoil into Tiphaïne’s lap. Sweetmeats, comfits, sugared fruit, they made a brave show in the hollow of the child’s tunic.
“Oh, Bertrand!” And she began to store them deliberately in her kerchief pouch, yet giving him some for his own delectation.
“I have saddled the palfrey,” he said, thrusting a sugar-plum into his capacious mouth.
“Bertrand, I love sweetmeats.”
Bertrand chuckled.
“So does Jehan, the pantler,” he said, licking his lips.