“Well, messire, what are we to say of the troth-breaking at Mivoie?”
“Why ask that question? It has been asked and answered.”
The half smile in the man’s eyes, the aggressive tilt of his peaked chin, made Bertrand hate him as he had never hated living thing before. The conviction weighed on him that he was like a sullen boy doomed to be outwitted by this shrewd and cold-brained man.
“Then Messire Bertrand du Guesclin will not accuse another gentleman of treachery?”
“I accuse no one, messire.”
“Nine-and-twenty of us fought at Mivoie, and Guillaume de Montauban took the vacant place.”
“You are well-informed, sir; you say I was not there. Why ask me all these questions?”
“Because,” and De Bodegat hugged his knee, “you cannot answer me, messire, and you show these gentlemen how to escape a lie.”
Bertrand angrily tightened one wrist against the other, so that the straining thongs twisted and bruised the sinews.
“Then, Messire Bertrand du Guesclin, we can color our own conclusions?”