Du Guesclin nearly dropped his spear.
“What! Who?”
“Your son Bertrand, messire. The lad had the courage to dare the crowd’s taunts rather than tilt against his father.”
Sieur Robert bore himself like a man bewildered, as much so as if De Beaumanoir had offered him a hundred gold pieces for that “priceless destrier”—Yellow Thomas.
There was a slight tinge of scorn in the Marshal’s voice. He guessed how matters stood between Du Guesclin and his son.
“The lad has behaved with honor.”
The knight of the Eagle acknowledged the contention.
“Messire de Beaumanoir, he has conquered his own father with courtesy.”
Therewith Du Guesclin put spurs to his horse, and, cantering up to Bertrand, held out his hand to him.
“Lad,” he said, “forgive me; I will keep your secret.”