Bertrand ground his teeth and tore at his surcoat with his hands, so fierce and passionate was his desire.
“I must have them, Olivier.”
“Gently, sir, gently.”
“See here—I’ll fight you for them—here in the guest-room. Come, get up, or I’ll call you a coward.”
Olivier de Manny lay back in his chair and laughed. His honest blue eyes twinkled as he studied Bertrand’s black and impatient face. He had always liked Bertrand, despite his ugliness, for there was a fierce sturdiness about the lad that pleased such a virile smiter as Olivier de Manny. Moreover, Olivier had ridden well that day, and had unhorsed one of the Sieur de Rohan’s knights, a rival of his in a certain love affair, and therefore Olivier was in the best of tempers.
“Gently, dear lad, gently,” he said, pulling his feet into a pair of embroidered shoes. “Don’t glare at me as though I were your worst enemy. My armor’s my own, I suppose, and no man ever saw my back. Do you want to tilt?—is that the passion?”
Bertrand nodded.
“What of Sieur Robert?”
“My father thinks I am a fool. They have all been laughing at me. By God, Olivier, I will show them that I can ride with the best!”
He stamped up and down the room, gesticulating and casting fierce and covetous looks at the armor upon the table. De Manny was watching him with secret sympathy and approbation. The lad had the true spirit in him, and the strength and fury of an angry bear.