Bertrand looked Bodegat straight in the face.
“That is my affair.”
“You will not answer?”
“No.”
“Then we can conclude the reason—some slight sickness, a seductive soul in a tavern on the road. But wait, you have been at Pontivy, eh, with the Fleming’s men?”
Bertrand felt the coils of Bodegat’s cunning, but he was far too stubborn to slip through them with a lie.
“True; I was at Pontivy. Does that make me Croquart’s man?”
Bodegat smiled and gave a shrug of the shoulders.
“Oh, we had our spies there, messire; we are not fools. But bear with me; another question: Why have you beaten out the eagle from your shield?”
Bertrand’s sturdy figure quivered under the unruffled insolence of Bodegat’s pleased cleverness.