The Breton chivalry flowed into La BelliÈre that day, a gaudy torrent that carried much pomp and panoply in the resonant splendor of its coming; trumpets blew, dogs barked, servants tumbled hither and thither, each man ordering and instructing his neighbor. Jehan, the porter, was fastening his best jerkin as pennons, two by two, came dipping under the arch of the gate. Heralds, trumpeters, lords, and knights poured in, till to the jackdaws on the chimneys the court-yard must have looked like a magician’s pit crammed with all manner of strange beasts, glittering dragons, and grotesque centaurs.

Of the knighting of Messire Bertrand du Guesclin in the great hall of La BelliÈre that same morning, Hopart and Guicheaux had many things to tell in the years to come, when they were rusty, bent-backed figures declaiming to open-mouthed youth on the settles before the winter fires: How Bertrand was taken in the Sieur de Beaumanoir’s arms; how the Breton lords crowded about him, offering him, one a horse, another a chain of gold, another a signet ring set with rubies; how Madame TiphaÏne stood on the great dais, looking down upon her man’s triumph with eyes that shone, even through brimming tears; how Beaumanoir’s sword touched Bertrand’s shoulder, and how the rafters rang with the shout that went up at his knighting; and how Messire Bertrand said little, and looked sly, as though ready to laugh over the time all these fine gentlemen had taken in discovering that he was not a fool.

But to leave Hopart and Guicheaux in their inglenooks with the firelight twinkling on their wrinkled old faces and their tongues wagging over the days that were no more.

For Bertrand’s sake TiphaÏne would have made a great feast that night for the Breton lords at La BelliÈre, but Bertrand, drawing the Sieur de Beaumanoir aside, told him the tale of Robin Raguenel. It was not in his heart to hear the trumpeting of his own triumph in the place while old Stephen Raguenel sat like a man stunned and thought of his son in the abbey of Lehon. There would have been mockery, gross mockery, in such a festival. And Beaumanoir, great lord and honest gentleman, gathered his pennons, his heralds, and his trumpeters, and returned by the road to Dinan that same day.

“I am for England, messire,” he said to Bertrand before he sallied forth. “We go to bring Count Charles back to his own land again. Come with me and see the English court.”

Bertrand flushed at the Marshal’s words.

“I have a promise that must be kept,” he answered.

“Here?” And Beaumanoir looked at him hard and smiled.

“No, to my mother—at Cancale.”

“Keep it, messire. It may be a month before we sail—if that is time enough.”

“Then, sire, I will come with you.”

“Brothers in arms—for the memory of Mivoie.”

Hopart and Guicheaux, trudging behind Bertrand’s horse as they followed him over the bleak lands towards the sea, glanced often at each other like two men most wise; for their lord rode as though he were alone with his own thoughts, a smile on his lips, and in his eyes the light of a brave desire.

For TiphaÏne had given him one long kiss at parting, and a lock of her hair, that he should wear under his armor—over his heart.

“Wait,” her eyes had said.

And Bertrand had answered:

“Until death.”

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes:

Contents at the beginning of the book has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note.

[End of Bertrand of Brittany, by Warwick Deeping]