Bertrand stared at her in blank astonishment.
“You, Tiphaïne!”
The child seemed perfectly sure of her own dignity, though there was no ostentation in her confidence.
“If I ask your father, he will give you a horse.”
“Yellow Thomas, perhaps.”
“Who is Yellow Thomas?”
“The old cart-horse,” quoth Bertrand, with a grin.
Mistress Tiphaïne was as good as her word, and the child’s serene lovableness made her a power even at the age of seven. When the trumpet blew for dinner that morning, and the Vicomte and Sieur Robert had washed their hands in the basin that young Olivier carried, Tiphaïne set herself before Du Guesclin at the high table, and held out her hands to him across the board.
“Messire, I—Tiphaïne Raguenel—would ask of you a boon.”
Du Guesclin’s sleepy but good-tempered face beamed with amusement as he looked into the child’s eyes.