He saw the repugnance on her face, as though the slime of some unclean reptile could not have made the flask more nauseous to her lips.
“Madame will not drink after me?”
“I am not thirsty.”
“And you do not eat? Well, as you will,” and he treated her as though she were a sulky child. “Sire, I drink to you, the champion of Mivoie.”
Tinteniac laughed.
“Women never know what is pleasant,” he said.
Croquart sprawled beside the fire.
“The battle makes men friends,” and he sucked at the flask till the wine dribbled down his chin.
“I remember, sire, when the Countess de Montfort gave me her own cup after the first taking of Roche d’Errien.”
“Ah, yes.”