“Ten thousand crowns.”
“What, sir?”
“For you, sire. Also ten thousand for madame.”
“Twenty thousand crowns!”
The Fleming’s eyes were full of cunning impudence.
“You are the Sieur de Tinteniac,” he said.
“True.”
“And courtesy would not permit you, sire, to value yourself more highly than madame—your wife.”
Tinteniac looked at his broken sword.
“Well, friend, you will have to wait.”