“Am I not your servant, lording?” she asked.
“Confound you, then, be quiet!”
“Messire is tired and out of temper.”
“You should know—” and he rode on down the slope with the rest following him.
Bertrand sent some of his light-riding gentlemen in advance to reconnoitre, for it was the duty of a captain of free lances to treat every strange place as the harbor of an enemy. He and his men were ready to plunder even their own friends, but they took shrewd care not to be caught and fleeced by rivals in the grim maze of war. Bertrand’s riders went trotting cautiously over the moor, avoiding the sky-line and heading for the scattered thickets that fringed the forest.
The woman Arletta still kept close to Bertrand, throwing sharp glances from time to time into his face. It was as though she watched to read his humor, even as a dog watches the face of her master, and fawns for a caress or cringes from a blow. Bertrand seemed surly and reticent that night. He rode along with his chin on his chest, wrapped in his own thoughts, forgetful of the woman at his side.
“Messire is troubled?”
She spoke almost humbly, insinuatingly, yet with a glint in her black eyes and a jealous alertness sharpening her face. Bertrand growled. Her persistence only annoyed him.
“Well, what now? Haven’t I given you enough spoil of late? You would not be content with all the crown jewels in your lap!”
Arletta’s mouth hardened viciously for the moment, but the expression passed and her face softened.