“Have your way, Messire Geoffroi Dubois. Look and see whether this is Croquart’s head.”
That which but an hour ago had held the conscious soul of a man was tossed from the red surcoat at the feet of Dubois’s horse. The beast reared and backed some paces. Twenty figures were craning forward in their saddles to get a glimpse of the thing that had half hidden itself in a clump of heather.
Carro de Bodegat was the first to earth. He threw his bridle to a trooper, and, picking up the Fleming’s head by the hair, looked at the face, with its closed lids and gaping mouth, and, turning with a sharp, inarticulate cry, held up the head before Dubois.
“It is Croquart’s.”
“Should I not know it?”
“Who killed him?”
“Bertrand du Guesclin.”
Bodegat turned sharply on the man in the black harness.
“And you?”
“I am Bertrand du Guesclin, Messire Carro de Bodegat. Has my face changed since I fought with you at Quimperlé?”