“Devil take her,” was Ogier’s retort.
There was a blow from sword, a blow that Ogier caught upon his shield. Tristan, stooping, dodged under the giant’s arm, sprang at Knight Percival before he could gain his guard. He had his bear’s grip on the man’s body. A heave of the chest, and the Knight of the Red Beard was off his feet. An impotent waving of a sword, a dropped shield, a straining of sinews, and Percival crashed over Tristan’s head. His face struck the stones; he squirmed over and lay still.
Ogier brandished the rest of them back.
“Room for the Duchess,” he roared. “Come, madame, we are the Bishop’s men; though we fight your fellows, we serve the Duke.”
Tristan, standing over Percival’s body, saw a short, plump woman move through the lane of armed men. Two young girls carried the train of her purple gown. She had a round, pallid face, eyes of greyish green, somewhat protuberant, but very liquid. The eyebrows sloped outwards over the eyes. The nose was broad, with nostrils wide apart; the mouth large, with lustful lips. Her neck had a peculiar silken brilliancy; her bust was full, her hips very broad. It was Lilias herself, Duchess of Agravale.
Ogier saluted her, and lowered his point. Two of the men-at-arms had raised Percival up; he was bleeding about the face, for the fall had stunned him. Lilias’s eyes were on Tristan’s face.
“Ogier,” she said, speaking very rapidly, as was her wont, with much working of the lips, “you of the Bishop’s household are for ever picking quarrels with my gentlemen. See to it, Sir Butcher; you shall hear more of this.”
Ogier, ignoring her taunt against his origin, covered his heart with his hairy paw, turned back her wrath with a suave and ponderous unction.
“Ah, madame,” he said, “your men persecute us, have beaten us often, methinks, because your gracious self lives in the heart of each of your knights. If I served such a lady as the Duchess Lilias, by God and the prophets, I could thrash the world.”
The woman smiled a little, the smile of one to whom flattery was never gross. Even a great dolt such as Ogier could fool her with a few honeyed antics of the tongue.