“And a courage that will not be flattered.”
Bertrand picked up his wine-cup and held it towards Girard.
“Enough, friend,” he said; “I am clumsy at catching compliments. Drink to all good Bretons. That will please me better.”
And Girard drank, his eyes looking at Bertrand over the rim of the cup.
It was then that the door leading to the stairway behind the dais opened, showing Tiphaïne in a green gown, a red girdle about her waist.
“Bertrand.”
He saw at once that she had been weeping, though her eyes shone like a clear sky after rain.
“Come.”
Bertrand followed her without a word. She climbed the stairs and halted on the threshold of the solar, her hand on the latch of the closed door.
“My father has asked for you.”