“Give them here, sirs, my good will is worth homage.”
The men grinned, and inclined their heads with quaint accord towards Denise.
“It is the grey, not the blue,” said one.
Denise stared at the grass, and did not catch Marpasse’s urgent nods and winks.
“I take no gifts from Messire Gaillard,” she said.
Marpasse made an impatient clucking with her tongue. How prejudiced people did bungle matters, to be sure!
“Think twice, my dear,” she said meaningly.
Denise repeated the same words. The men grinned, looked at one another, and did not stir.
“Messire Gaillard,” said they, “has set us at your service. It is proper that you should be guarded when all men are not as honourable as our lord.”
Denise saw herself trapped, and went red, and then white. She looked at Marpasse, but Marpasse stared obtusely into the distance, knowing that they were in the Gascon’s hands, and that the men had been sent to see that they did not flit. Marpasse remembered the promise of the knife, but the morning was cold and grey, and Marpasse too practical and hopeful to indulge in such heroics. Therefore she put the best face she could upon it for Denise’s sake, and Marpasse knew how to deal with men.