Scouts had galloped5 back to Woodmere, greatly exulting7.
“Troy is on the march. Fifty archers8 and a hundred men-at-arms. They have cannon9 with them. We can eat them up, lordings all.”
Such was the news, and the Forest captains rose to it, and set their trumpets10 blowing. But Roger Bland was no such facile fool. Sir Gregory’s scouts had watched Troy Castle, and the roads leading to it; they had reported faithfully, counted their men with honest precision, accurately11 judged the enemy’s strength. Yet no one appeared to remember that there might be another cloud in the sky, hidden from them by the tree-tops and the hills. My Lord of Troy had blundered, belittled12 the forces against him! He had marched out and camped for the night on Bracknell Plain with his cannon and a hundred and fifty men. That was how Sir Gregory and his captains viewed it, and they rushed out to attack my Lord of Troy, meaning to catch him on the march.
Roger Bland had not hurried himself. He was still camped on Bracknell Plain, though the sun had been up some hours. And that camp of his was very cunningly placed, with three great open woods sending out leafy capes13 within a quarter of a mile of it, good cover for an ambuscade. His camp had a rampart of brushwood and sharp stakes; his cannon were loaded and ready, the gunners lying beside them; his archers squatted14 behind the brushwood; gentlemen and men-at-arms were in full harness and ready to mass their spears. The horses were tethered outside the camp, half a furlong away; a sharp look-out was being kept. My Lord of Troy had baited his trap and sat down to wait for his prey15.
It was a league and a half from Woodmere to the edge of Bracknell Plain, and Sir Gregory had halted his companies under cover of a heathy hill and waited for his riders to come in. John Falconer had the rear-guard, and Sir Gregory jogged back to speak with him, and to look with lustful16 eyes at a woman who was very beautiful.
“We should have good news, John. And how doth our sweet Mistress like the morning?”
Mellis had dismounted and was sitting in the heather, white, dark-eyed, and sullen17, holding herself proudly because of these men and of the shame they had put upon her.
She did not look at Sir Gregory, or answer him.
“Tut, tut! Our sweet comrade is still wroth with us, John. Women are unreasonable18.”
Falconer growled19 at him.
“Let the wench be! We have flayed20 her pride, and she hates us.”
A squire21, very hot and dusty, came cantering down on them.
“News, sir—news!”
“Out with it.”
“My Lord of Troy is still camped on Bracknell Plain. They have not stirred, sir. Their horses are unharnessed, their sentries22 pushed out no farther than a furlong.”
“Ye gods! This Roger Bland was never a soldier. Why, we shall be on them before they can get to horse. Come, sirs, come.”
Away in the woods Martin Valliant was seeing strange things. He had followed the march of Sir Gregory’s men from Woodmere, and when they had reached the rolling heaths that led up to Bracknell Plain, he had drawn23 away among the pine thickets24 so that he could watch them without being seen. His course had led him toward one of those strips of woodland that jutted25 out into the plain toward my Lord of Troy’s camp, an open wood of beeches26 and Scots firs. The place seemed silent and empty, full of deep shadows and splashes of sunlight that played on the bracken and the trunks of the trees.
Then of a sudden he saw something that made him drop down in the bracken like a bird when a hawk27 is hovering28 overhead. A knight29 in armor was riding his horse through the wood. He reined30 in and remained motionless, spear on thigh31, red plume32 trailing under the branches. He wore a red tabard embroidered33 with gold; his horse’s harness was of red leather studded with brass34; his spear was painted black, and a bunch of white roses had been tied to its throat.
Martin, lying flat on his belly35, grew aware of a strange, tremulous stirring in the deeps of the wood. It was as though some great monster were moving, ponderous36 and slow, the earth and the trees quivering as it moved. There was a shrilling37 of steel and the snorting of horses. The knight in the red tabard held up his spear, and the wood seemed to grow silent.
Martin had blundered into the midst of a mystery. He crawled backwards38 through the bracken, keeping his eyes on the knight in the red tabard; but that gentleman was staring through a woodland window out upon Bracknell Plain, and Martin Valliant escaped unseen.
He lay for a while in a little dell, resting his chin on his hands, and staring at the seed pods of the wild hyacinths that had carpeted the ground. The wood remained silent, save for the screaming of a couple of jays, yet Martin guessed that the red knight was no solitary39 adventurer, but the leader of a great company that was lying hidden among the trees.
What of Sir Gregory and the men of the Red Rose? Were they pushing blindly into an ambush40, and if so—what would come of it? A grim impartiality41 guided Martin’s thoughts; he cared not which beast devoured42 the other, provided Mellis was not harmed; he was a thief ready to snatch the precious plunder43 while these
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