A great shout went up from the barriers.
“Sir Girard is down! Look, his horse has the staggers still.”
“Who is the other fellow? He charges like a mad bull.”
“Sir Turncoat—the heralds called him. I would wager it is De Montfort playing one of his brave tricks.”
Bertrand, his ears ringing, and the breath driven out of him for the moment, stood up in the stirrups and brandished his spear. A fierce joy leaped in him, driven up like fire by the gusty cheering of the crowd. The rough quintain in the woods had taught him well, and he—Bertrand the despised—was crossing spears with the Breton chivalry. He looked towards the place where Tiphaïne was seated. Yes, her eyes were fixed on him, and she was waving her hand. Bertrand wondered whether she guessed who it was who fought with his surcoat turned and his shield covered, and had given the fall to De Rochefort, the rose-crowned champion of Cologne.
Bertrand felt a hand touch his bridle. It was the Sieur de Beaumanoir, in his red jupon, covered with the blazonings of Brittany, his eyes fixed curiously upon the closed and gridded bassinet.
“Bravely ridden, sir. Will it please you to uncover to me, that the heralds may shout your name?”
Bertrand bent forward in the saddle and whispered to the Marshal through the bars of his visor:
“Your patience, sire. I have borrowed my cousin’s arms to prove to my father that I am no magpie.”
Beaumanoir nodded.