Aymery’s knees shook under him, and his eyes had turned to grey steel.
“If your heart and mouth are foul,” he said, “make no boast thereof, my hireling. God give me the chance some day, and I will choke you with those words.”
He held his head high, and looked Gaillard in the eyes. But the strength was ebbing from him; he had lost more blood. Two of the Gascon’s men caught him by the arms as he began to totter.
Etoile touched Count Peter with her bow.
“The man has courage in him. We have bated him enough.”
The lord of the castles smiled like a cynic.
“We men are so deserving of pity, we are such fine fellows! Lend him your horse, my desire!”
Peter of Savoy laid a hand over his heart, looking at Etoile under half-closed lids as though she were a child to be humoured. He gave Gaillard his orders. A spare horse was led forward, and Aymery lifted into the saddle. He held to the pommel with both hands, trying to steady himself, a confusion of faces before his eyes.
“Wine, and I shall not hinder you.”
A horn set with silver and closed with an ivory lid, passed from hand to hand. It had come from the wallet that hung from Etoile’s saddle. A soldier held it to Aymery’s mouth, steadying him with one arm. Aymery drank, his hand shaking, so that the red wine stained his chin.