“So, lad,” he said, smacking his lips and tossing the bare bone upon the table, “you would serve the Bishop and drink his beer? Good, very good. Can you pay for your stomach?”
Tristan showed the girth of his arm, the knotted muscles swelling under the sleeve. Ogier rose up, towering like a poplar over Tristan’s head; his belt would have girded two common men’s loins.
“My child,” he said, setting a hairy hand on Tristan’s shoulder, and leaning his great weight thereon, “stand fast now; let me feel my prop.”
Tristan never budged; he was like a stone buttress against the flank of a tower, yet he rocked a little as the giant bore on him. Ogier grinned, puffed out his lips.
“Short men stand stiff,” he said. “Come, my troll, we will try you further.”
“What you will,” was Tristan’s retort.
Ogier thudded down by the winding stair, his broad body shutting out the light. There was a tilting yard joining the Bishop’s stables, and in the yard stood a horse-block of solid stone.
“Lift it,” was all the giant said.
Tristan unstrapped his shield from betwixt his shoulders, ungirded his sword, gave them Ogier to hold. He spread his feet, tilted the stone, got his fingers under the edge, held his breath, heaved the mass over his head. The block splintered a flagstone at Ogier’s feet. The giant blundered back against the wall with an oath.
“God’s truth, man!” he said. “Have a care of my toes.”