The ragged creature cocked an ear and fingered a lower lip that was blue and drooping with age.
“If you please, lording, it is no man’s manor.”
“Nonsense; speak up; they shall not touch you.”
Arletta, the two women, and the rest of the troop came streaming in at the moment. Bertrand waved them back and kept his eyes on the old man’s veined and weathered face.
“If you please, lording, this was Yvon de Beaulieu’s house. But he is dead, messire, and all his people.”
“Well, and you?”
The grotesque head shook on its skinny neck.
“I was his pantler, lording, but they were all killed. Sir Yvon and his son, Jehan the falconer, and ten more. It was Croquart the Fleming who did it. Madame Gwen he took away with him, because she still had her looks, or might fetch a ransom. Ah, lording, they took everything, even the fowls out of the yard.”
Bertrand stroked his chin, looked steadfastly at the old man, turning over in his heart the brutalities of war.
“Give him a stool,” he said, suddenly. “Now, grandfather, sit you down; we’ll not disturb you. A lodging for the night—that is our need. And, men, mark me, Croquart has swept the place clean; we have food of our own; let no one thieve a crust or I’ll have my word with him. A bundle of sticks; grandfather, I’ll pay you for them out of my own purse.”