Читать книгу Bertrand of Brittany - Warwick Deeping - Страница 9

“Olivier, lend me your armor and a horse.”

De Manny looked up in astonishment, and recognized in the half-threatening and dogged-faced pleader his cousin from Motte Broon.

“Bertrand, what brings you to Rennes?”

“Ask me no questions, but lend me your armor and a horse.”

“St. Ives, my dear coz, why should I grant you so great a favor?”

Bertrand ground his teeth and tore at his surcoat with his hands, so fierce and passionate was his desire.

“I must have them, Olivier.”

“Gently, sir, gently.”

“See here—I’ll fight you for them—here in the guest-room. Come, get up, or I’ll call you a coward.”

Olivier de Manny lay back in his chair and laughed. His honest blue eyes twinkled as he studied Bertrand’s black and impatient face. He had always liked Bertrand, despite his ugliness, for there was a fierce sturdiness about the lad that pleased such a virile smiter as Olivier de Manny. Moreover, Olivier had ridden well that day, and had unhorsed one of the Sieur de Rohan’s knights, a rival of his in a certain love affair, and therefore Olivier was in the best of tempers.

“Gently, dear lad, gently,” he said, pulling his feet into a pair of embroidered shoes. “Don’t glare at me as though I were your worst enemy. My armor’s my own, I suppose, and no man ever saw my back. Do you want to tilt?—is that the passion?”

Bertrand nodded.

“What of Sieur Robert?”

“My father thinks I am a fool. They have all been laughing at me. By God, Olivier, I will show them that I can ride with the best!”

He stamped up and down the room, gesticulating and casting fierce and covetous looks at the armor upon the table. De Manny was watching him with secret sympathy and approbation. The lad had the true spirit in him, and the strength and fury of an angry bear.

“Bertrand.”

“Well, are you going to fight?”

“No, but I’ll lend you my armor and my horse.”

“Olivier!”

“You must do me justice, lad.”

“Olivier, I’ll love thee forever out of the bottom of my heart.”

He ran forward, threw himself upon his cousin, embraced him, and almost wept upon his neck. De Manny, who hated any display of emotion, and yet was touched by the lad’s passionate outburst of gratitude, put Bertrand aside and smote him softly on the cheek.

“I’ve conquered you by love, lad,” he said, laughing. “Come, be quick. I’ll help you to fasten on the steel. Guy, pull off my hauberk; unstrap these demi-brassarts. That’s the way. Bertrand, you can wear your surcoat inside out and tie a cover over the shield. St. Ives for the unknown knight! By the lips of my lady, I will come down and see you break a spear!”

He bustled about like the manly and good-hearted gentleman that he was. Bertrand, his eyes gleaming with delight, pulled on his cousin’s hauberk, and suffered Olivier and the servant to buckle on the arm and leg pieces and to lace the visored bassinet. He was tremulous for the moment with the fever of his joy. De Manny patted him on the shoulder and looked searchingly into his face.

“Can you handle a spear, lad?” he asked.

“I can.”

“Aim for the shield; it is surer. On my oath—I love thee for a lad of spirit.”

“Give me your hand, Olivier. I shall not forget this nobleness.”

“There, lad; take care of my fingers.”

Olivier bustled away to get the horse out of the stable and tighten up the harness with his own hands. He led Yellow Thomas into the yard, grimacing as he looked at the poor beast’s knees and at the way his bones elbowed through the skin.

“Poor lad!” he thought; “they are devilish mean with him, and yet I will swear he is a better man than his father.”

In a few minutes they had shortened the stirrups, and Bertrand was in the saddle, with Olivier’s shield about his neck and a spear in his right hand. He flourished it as though it had been a willow wand, beamed at his cousin, and then clapped to his visor.

“God bless thee, Olivier!” he shouted, as he trotted off briskly down the street. “Now they shall see whether I am a fool or not.”