“Hallo, Jacques Bonhomme, whose hut is that?”
The peasant indicated his own person with his thumb.
“Yours, eh? And who have you been lodging? A large party by the look of the grass. Speak up! We are Breton men, and we are not here to steal.”
The man’s face brightened a little as he scratched his chin and looked cunning.
“Maybe you are of the Montfort party, lording?”
“Maybe we are, maybe we are not. Who have you had camped here for the night?”
“Monk Hanotin, Croquart’s bully.”
“Who? Say that again.”
“Monk Hanotin, lording, and twenty men. They’ve thove my old sow, bad blood to them, burned my sticks of furniture, and taken all the meal I had in the tub.”
Bertrand was frowning at the man, while Hopart and the rest listened in silence.