“God see to it, sire,” the Breton had answered him, “I am no coward, but I tell you the assault will fail.”
And fail it did with the loss of thirty of Lord Luis’s best men. Bertrand had been taken up for dead out of the ditch and dragged back to the camp, under the very spears of the English when they made their sally. As for the Spaniard, he had been the more savage at the repulse, since he himself had staked his three best horses in a wager on the success thereof. And, like many a captain, he had taken to abusing those who served him, and in shaming the men who had risked their lives at his command.
“Messire Bertrand du Guesclin, the fault was yours—”
Bertrand, with his head in bandages and his face white as a sick girl’s, had tottered into Lord Luis’s tent to hear the whole blame laid to his lack of spirit.
“Sire,” he had said, “did I not warn you?”
“Too well, messire. I think my own thoughts and hold to my own reasons. When the hawk flies ill the quarry need not take the air.”
Bertrand had sworn a great oath, red with shame at such curt handling.
“Before God, sire, do you accuse me of cowardice?”
Lord Luis had shrugged his shoulders.
“I will not twist your words, messire, into their true meaning. You may know that I shall place my commands elsewhere in the future. It has been said that the hands of half our captains smell of English gold.”