“It may be treachery. Look to your arms ere you ride in,” cried Hubert.
They entered the court through the gateway in the Barbican tower. Instantly the gates slammed behind them, the portcullis fell, and, as by magic, the windows and courtyard were crowded with men in green jerkins with bended bows.
“What means this outrage,” cried Hubert aloud, “upon the heir of Walderne as he enters his own castle?”
“That you are in the power of the merrie men of the greenwood. If you be Drogo of Walderne, surrender, and spare bloodshed: all who have never harmed us to go free.”
“Then are we all free. My men are from Kenilworth, and can never have harmed you in word or deed. As for Drogo, he fell by my hand this day in fair combat.”
“Who art thou, then?”
“Hubert, son of Roger of Walderne, and I seek my brother Martin—Friar Martin—whom you all must know.”
Instantly every hostile demonstration ceased. The doors were thrown open, and the men who, a moment before, were about to fly at each other’s throats, mingled freely as friends.
“Martin is below,” they said. “Have you smiths who can force a door?”
“Lead me to him. HERE IS THE KEY.”