It was near the vesper hour one evening, when Ogier and Tristan turned from the palace square into this stone-walled walk. A knot of the Bishop’s men-at-arms had passed in before them; their voices and footsteps echoed with a metallic resonance betwixt the walls. Of a sudden there was a clangour of arms at the far end of the passage. Hoods and helmets hid the entry; a pike or two bobbed and shimmered under the trees. Ogier loosened his sword in its scabbard, warned Tristan with a wink of the eye.
Ogier’s men had met the ducal company in the midst of the passage. There was a tossing up of challenges that reverberated in the narrow throat of the place.
“Out, dogs, make way for the Duchess.”
“Hold, sirs, you shall take the wall of us.”
“Be damned, then, stand aside.”
There was a brief scrimmage, a swaying to and fro from wall to wall. A sword shone out in the gleam from the west. A tall man in a trellised hauberk, with a red tunic showing beneath, broke through the press, and came striding on with his chin in the air, his red moustachios curling up like the tusks of a boar. He twirled his sword, while his tawny eyes flashed rapid glances over Ogier’s face.
Ogier spread his great arms from wall to wall, thrust one foot forward, and barred the way. Percival of the Red Beard made a sweeping gesture with his sword.
“Out of the path, wine skin,” he said, “or I will set you leaking over the stones.”
“Church before State, my friend,” said the giant, standing firm.
“Out, dogs, the Duchess is at hand.”