Bertrand of Brittany by Warwick Deeping

BERTRAND was astir early the following morning. He scrambled up from his truss of straw in one corner of the great hall, shook himself, and looked round at the Vicomte's men who were still snoring on the rushes and dry bracken. The sunlight was streaming in through the eastern window, falling on the polished surface of the high table and the crimson tapestry threaded with gold. One of Olivier's favorite hawks was bating on its perch under the window. Bertrand whistled softly to the bird, and glanced at the place by the fire where he had talked with Tiphaïne the night before. The three-legged stool was still lying where he had left it, but from the spot where Tiphaïne had throned herself amid the rushes the stertorous and gaping face of the Vicomte's farrier saluted the rafters from a bundle of heather.

Bertrand's eyes twinkled. He passed out of the hall into the court-yard, walking with the slightest suggestion of a swagger that seemed to betray unusual self-satisfaction. Tiphaïne's comradeship had lifted him suddenly out of his sullen hopelessness, and Bertrand's pride was ready to try its wings. In the yard one of Sieur Robert's grooms was seated astride a bench polishing his master's war harness. He grinned at Bertrand as though a mere showing of the teeth was sufficient salutation for the unfavored son.