Girard ran down the tower stair two steps at a time, bruised his forehead—without swearing—against the cross-beam of a door, and reached the great court in time to see Tiphaïne and the man in the black harness ride in through the gate.
“Assuredly this is God’s doing.” And Girard crossed himself before running forward to join his fellow-servants in frightening the starlings, who were unaccustomed to so much shouting.
“Madame, this is God’s doing.”
He kissed the hem of her cloak, and was asked but a single question in return:
“Girard, my father?”
“Now that madame has come back to us my lord the Vicomte will most surely live.”
She left the saddle and bade Bertrand follow her. But the man in the black harness held back, feeling that he was a stranger amid the curious and many faces that filled the court-yard of La Bellière.
“Go,” he said to her. “I will wait my time.”
“Perhaps it is better.”
“Yes, that you should go to him alone.”