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Updated: May 8, 2025
Now presently within the city Sir Benedict's trumpets Hew, and looking from the battlement Beltane beheld Sir Hacon mustering their stout company, knights and men-at-arms, what time Roger and Walkyn and Ulf ordered what remained of their pikemen and archers. "Beloved!" sighed Beltane, drawing his Duchess within his arm, "see yonder, 'tis horse and saddle soon must I leave thee again."
WALKYN. "Aye, five miles west by south is Brand-le-Dene. But there is a mill scarce a mile down stream, I wot." BELTANE. "A mill? 'Twill serve go ye thither. Here is money buy therewith four hats and smocks the like that millers wear, and likewise four meal-sacks well stuffed with straw." Straw and meal-sacks?" BELTANE. "And haste, Walkyn. We must be far hence within the hour."
So for a space, standing yet within the shade of the woods, Beltane stared fierce-eyed, the while Giles, with Roger at his elbow, pointed out divers shapes that dangled high in air, at sight of which the friar knelt with bowed head and lips that moved in prayer: and Walkyn, scowling, muttered in his beard.
Heroes were we all, last night nay, very Titans four 'gainst an army! whiles now, within this balmy-breathing morn you shall see Walkyn o' the Bloody Axe with grim Black Rogerkin, down at the brook yonder, a-sprawl upon their bellies busily a-tickling trout for breakfast, while I, whose good yew bow carrieth death in every twang, toasting deer-flesh on a twig, am mocked of wanton warblers i' the green: and thou, who art an Achilles, a Hector, an Ajax a very Mars do sleep and slumber, soft and sweet as full-fed friar Heigho!
Now hereupon Giles made his obeisance, and together with Roger and Walkyn and Ulf, hasted up to the battlement above the gateway. "Benedict," said Sir Brian as they climbed the turret stair, "blasphemy is a dread and awful thing. We shall be excommunicate one and all better methinks to let the populace yield up the city and die the death, than perish everlastingly!"
"Nay, there one escaped!" quoth Roger. "Yet he sore wounded!" said Walkyn. "Ha! Sir Pertolepe is a terrible lord!" quoth Giles, eyeing the morsel of venison somewhat askance. "'Twill be a desperate adventure, methinks and we but four." "Yet each and all gods!" quoth Walkyn, reaching for his axe. "Aye," nodded Giles, frowning at the piece of venison, "yet are we but four gods."
"Walkyn o' the Dene they call me hereabouts though I had another name once but 'twas long ago, when I marched, a lad, 'neath the banner of Beltane the Strong!" "What talk be this?" grunted Black Roger, threatening of mien, "my lord and I be under a vow and must begone, and want no runaway serf crawling at our heels!" "Ha!" quoth Walkyn, "spake I to thee, hangman?
"But he sore wounded!" quoth Walkyn. "How!" cried the friar aghast, "have ye indeed slain Sir Pertolepe's foresters?" "Nineteen!" nodded Roger, grimly. "Alas!" cried the friar, "may God save the poor folk hereabouts, for now will Sir Pertolepe wreak vengeance dire upon them." "Then," said Beltane, "then must I have word with Sir Pertolepe."
Pale of cheek and with trembling hands, Roger bound the arms of him that had been his over-lord, while Walkyn and Giles, silent and wide-eyed, watched it done. "Whither would ye take me?" quoth Red Pertolepe, arrogant. "That shalt thou know anon, messire." "How an I defy thee?" "Then must we carry thee, messire," answered Beltane, "yet thine own legs were better methinks come, let us begone."
Thus, from his "mockery" perched high above the battlement, spake Giles, with many and divers knowing gestures of arm, waggings of the head, rollings of the eyes and the like, what time Roger and Walkyn and Ulf, their heads bent close together, busied themselves above a great and bulging wine-skin.
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