when they returned to the fire isoult was no longer there, but she had left some sign behind her that marpasse understood, for the elder woman showed no concern. she was discreetly curt with denise when the latter began to wonder what had befallen isoult.

“lie down and sleep, my dear,” she said, “and take care of your feet, for you will want them on the morrow. the black cat can see in the dark, she will come to no harm, will isoult.”

marpasse might as well have told denise to love gaillard as to sleep. her brain was full of a listening wakefulness that started uneasily when a stick cracked on the fire. so she and marpasse kept vigil together, while a gradual silence spread over the valley with its armed host and its sombre town. nor were marpasse and denise disturbed that night, for the men of the rear-guard had been marched and counter-marched that day owing to some mad rumour, and they were dead tired, and glad to snore under any hedge.

the dawn came listlessly, and without colour. the birds were awake and singing, and with their song, bizarre and discordant came the blowing of trumpets and the stupid curses of the stirring men. the dawn seemed heavy, and full of a dull discontent. yet the birds sang, and the men cursed perfunctorily, sulkily, the creatures of a habit. so with the voices of the morning thrilling from the throats of the choir invisible, the camp of the king was one great oath.

denise was ready, and shivering to be gone. the fire was out, her body stiff and cold, the dew heavy upon the grass. the dawn had shown denise how hemmed in she and marpasse were. horses stood tethered everywhere, gaunt, clumsy waggons waited like patient mammoths, not a hundred yards away a red pavilion had been pitched, its coloured canvas swelling and falling lazily with the morning breeze. the babel of coarse, rough voices that rose out of the green earth made denise shudder and yearn to be gone.

but marpasse held her ground.

“food and drink first,” she said.

denise’s restless eyes betrayed her desire.

“rest easy,” marpasse assured her, “men are meek in the morning, though they curse all heaven and earth. eat and drink, and see that your shoes sit comfortably.”

denise ate with such hurry and such artificial greed that marpasse could not help but laugh.

“my teeth are not so good as yours,” she said; “if your legs are as sound we shall not do amiss.”

denise’s eyes were on the red pavilion. the flap thereof was open, and in the black slit that clove like a wedge into the colour, denise thought that she saw a man standing and looking towards where she and marpasse sat. marpasse was still at her meal, when two men-at-arms came out of the red pavilion, carrying their shields as servers carry dishes to a table. they came over the grass towards the women, while a man in a blue surcoat appeared at the door of the pavilion, and stood as though to watch.

denise half rose, but marpasse caught her, and pulled her back.

“sit still. you are far too simple.”

“it is gaillard, yonder!”

“yes, yes. fool him first, my dear, and then run away when he is not looking. that is what we women have to do when men are the stronger.”

the two soldiers came up, and stood before denise. one carried food and a flask of wine in the hollow of his shield; the other, a red scarf and a silver girdle.

“messire gaillard, our lord, yonder, begs for the lady denise’s good-will.”

marpasse beckoned with her arm.

“give them here, sirs, my good will is worth homage.”

the men grinned, and inclined their heads with quaint accord towards denise.

“it is the grey, not the blue,” said one.

denise stared at the grass, and did not catch marpasse’s urgent nods and winks.

“i take no gifts from messire gaillard,” she said.

marpasse made an impatient clucking with her tongue. how prejudiced people did bungle matters, to be sure!

“think twice, my dear,” she said meaningly.

denise repeated the same words. the men grinned, looked at one another, and did not stir.

“messire gaillard,” said they, “has set us at your service. it is proper that you should be guarded when all men are not as honourable as our lord.”

denise saw herself trapped, and went red, and then white. she looked at marpasse, but marpasse stared obtusely into the distance, knowing that they were in the gascon’s hands, and that the men had been sent to see that they did not flit. marpasse remembered the promise of the knife, but the morning was cold and grey, and marpasse too practical and hopeful to indulge in such heroics. therefore she put the best face she could upon it for denise’s sake, and marpasse knew how to deal with men.

“sit down, gentlemen,” said she, “i am sorry the fire is out, but we shall be moving before long. you, there, with the beard, since my sister is in the sulks, i will take some of that baked meat and wine you have brought us. now, good health to the king, and all soldiers.”

marpasse ate and drank with relish, a second breakfast not coming at all amiss to her, and she talked and laughed with the men, and soon had them at her service. denise would touch nothing, though marpasse smiled, nodded and whispered in her ear. “courage, girl,” she said, “leave it to me, a laugh and a flash of the eyes work marvels, even with pigs. we will spread our fingers at them before the day is old.” but denise sat like one stunned, and would not believe that marpasse meant what she said. the red tent had a fascination for denise, and she saw gaillard and two other knights come out, sit down on cloaks their servants spread for them, and make a meal. then they were washed, barbered, and armed in full view of the two women, while a boy stood near, and sang to the sound of a lute. the whole camp was full of stir and movement. already, black columns were pouring out of guildford town. in an hour the whole host would be on the march.

so it befell that denise found herself walking beside marpasse that morning at the tail of gaillard’s company of spears. the two men-at-arms who had been set to guard them, walked their horses one on either side. marpasse trudged along, merry and insolent; denise, with her thoughts humbled into the dust. gaillard had ridden up and spoken to her, not mockingly, but with the arrogance of a man in power. “sanctissima,” he had said, “before long i will find you a palfrey, and you shall ride at my side. hold up your head, my dear, and be sensible; i have something on my conscience, and by my sword, i am not unready to right a wrong.” denise had answered him nothing, for she was bitter with the humiliation of it, and that gaillard of all men should look at her as on one whom he might graciously lift up out of the mire. chance had joined her to these two women, and she guessed that isoult’s red gown had coloured gaillard’s vision.

when they had gone a mile or more denise asked marpasse in an undertone for her knife. but marpasse shut her mouth firmly, and shook her head.

“have patience, my dear,” she said in a whisper, “i have my trick to play. be ready when i give the word.”

and marpasse trudged on cheerfully, mocking at herself in her heart.

“fool,” she said to herself, “what is the girl to you? why burn your fingers pulling cinders out of the fire? you may get kicks for it, and no money. and you may lose your chance, too, of getting a lover. fool! you have had a heart of pap ever since you were born.”

yet though marpasse talked to herself thus, her mind was set on cheating gaillard of denise.

the king’s host went winding through the green valleys that spring morning, marching kentwards, where earl simon had taken the town of rochester by assault, and pressed hard upon john de warenne who held out in the castle. horse and foot, archers and camp-followers, baggage-waggons, sumpter mules, and loose women, made up the stream of steel and colour. it was a rough, careless, confident march, for had not the first triumphs fallen to the king? northampton had been taken, and simon the younger made prisoner, with madame etoile, his lady. leicester and nottingham had fallen, and gifford’s seizure and destruction of warwick was all that the barons could claim on their side. the mise had gilded henry’s cause. even the king of the scots had sent aid to his brother of england; a balliol, a bruce, and a comyn were among his captains. john de warenne should keep earl simon under rochester’s walls, until the king should come and crush him, or drive him headlong over the sea.

henry, weak, persuadable, false, yet brilliant gentleman, might count himself strong that spring, with his poitevins and his adventurers, and the rougher lords who preferred the licence of a weak king to the justice of earl simon. but the old lion was not driven to bay yet, much less cowed or beaten. de montfort and his men were not asleep, nor over confident like the king’s party. rochester might be many miles away, but earl simon had sent some of his most trusted men to watch the march of the king’s army, to judge its strength, and keep him warned as to all that passed.

waleran de monceaux and sir aymery, woodlanders both of them, and wise in woodland law, lay that morning in a coppice close to the road and watched the king’s host go by. these sussex men were men whom de montfort trusted to the death. and they lay on their bellies in the thick of the dead bracken and the brambles, two wise dogs that saw and were not seen.

aymery was stretched at full length, his chin upon his two fists, his grey eyes at gaze, while waleran, more restless and impetuous, carried on a mumbling monologue, and chewed grass with hungry jaws. they were counting the banners and the pennons, and marking as best they could the lords and knights who were with the king. aymery lay still enough till gaillard’s company came up, the gascon riding bareheaded, his blue surcoat ablaze with its golden suns. gaillard had found favour with the king, despite the happenings at pevensey, and the anger of peter of savoy. aymery knew gaillard at the first glance, and set his teeth hard so that the muscles stood out about his jaw.

yet the tail of gaillard’s company brought a far fiercer inspiration, for denise walked there beside marpasse, denise with her hair of red gold shining like a torch against the green. she walked as one going to the ordeal of fire, white-faced, mute, looking neither to the right hand nor left. her grey cloak went like a cloud beside marpasse’s azure blue. the two men-at-arms rode stolidly behind, while the men in the rear rank of gaillard’s troop were laughing and joking with marpasse.

aymery stiffened as he lay, and his hand went to the sword in the dead bracken beside him. he scrambled suddenly to his knees, with a fierce, inarticulate cry deep down in his throat. waleran seized him, and dragged him back to cover, for they were so near the road that the slightest movement might betray them.

“god, man, are you mad!”

aymery lay there a moment with his face on his arms. he said nothing to waleran, but when he raised his head again his face was grim and full of thought. he kept watch there in silence, but the road was empty now save for a few camp-followers, women and beggars. aymery rose on one elbow, and looked towards the drifting dust that hung on the heels of the king’s host.

he turned suddenly to waleran.

“brother, you and i must part company for a while. go back to our men. i must follow the march farther.”

waleran looked at him curiously out of half-closed eyes.

“i know the man you are. simon trusts us both.”

they scrambled up out of their “forms,” and went back through the wood till they came to a dell where they had left their horses. aymery laid his hands on waleran’s shoulders.

“brother-in-arms,” he said, “trust me. i have a book to read, and a debt to pay. there is nothing of the traitor in my heart.”

waleran hugged him like a bear.

“blood of my father, i know that! i can carry the news.”

they parted there, two men who loved and trusted one another. aymery took spear, shield, and helmet, and mounted his horse to follow the march of the king’s host, that splendid stream that seemed to gather and to carry with it all the pomp and music, the violence and passion, and the suffering sinfulness that the land held.