A shadow filled the doorway leading to the guard-room. Ogier stood there, stretching his arms heavenwards, yawning like a volcano. He saw Tristan, and called to him out of the gloom.
“Ha, my son, have you cooled your flesh by now? Your fingers itch too incontinently for other people’s weasands. Old Nicholas is himself again, save for a bruised face.”
Tristan conjured up a laugh and fell in with Ogier’s humour.
“It goes against the grain with me,” he said, “to see a girl flogged. God knows, she is mad, and the rod is the only argument.”
“Women, my son,” said Ogier, striding up like a great galleon, and buffeting Tristan’s shoulder, “women are like dogs, the better for a beating. They make fools of us, the wantons, but, by Jeremy, we have the heavier hand of them. Consider Master Jocelyn. Ha, I was forgetting. Did you look through that grille?”
Tristan, quick to comprehend his part, nudged Ogier significantly with his elbow. The giant broke into a chuckle, a sound that echoed through the court.
“See how our saints have feet of clay,” he said. “My faith, comrade, but the Bishop is a bigger fool than any of us. He would out-Solomon Solomon for a black eye and a red mouth. Tristan, my son, if you love peace, keep clear of petticoats.”
“Truth, truth,” said the disciple, with a laugh.
Ogier stretched himself again and yawned.
“Ah, my son, we are the ministers of love. To horse, and away at dawn. Such are our orders.”