“The conqueror of Croquart can ask what he pleases.”
Bertrand, with Tiphaïne’s face looking down on him like lost love’s face out of heaven, broke the laces of Croquart’s bassinet.
“Sire”—and his voice needed no disguising—“I ask you and madame, your wife, not to leave that room till I have made an end.”
Tinteniac gave the promise, turning with a smile to Tiphaïne, who promised nothing.
“Granted, sir. And in return, will you trust us with your name?”
Bertrand had turned his back on them and was bending over the body.
“Sire, you ask me what I cannot answer.”
“We will hold it sacred.”
Bertrand shook his head.
Tinteniac pressed him no further, and Bertrand, forcing off Croquart’s bassinet, broke away the plates of the gorget from the bleeding throat. Picking up his poniard he slit the Fleming’s surcoat from breast to knee, dragged it from the body, and spread the stuff upon the grass. Two sharp sweeps of the sword served to sever the neck. The dead thing was wrapped up in the red surcoat, and the ends of the cloth knotted together.