“Easier said than done,” muttered Martin, but not so low that his words were unheard.
“What is easier said than done?” cried Drogo.
“I mean the hunting out those outlaws. Ever since you Normans came, in the days of the usurper you call the Conqueror, it has been talked about but never done.”
“Usurper we call the Conqueror, pretty words these for the park of Kenilworth,” said several voices. “They suit the descendants of the men who let themselves be beaten at Hastings.”
“In any place but this Kenilworth they would cost a fellow his ears.”
“Yes, but Earl Simon loves the English.”
“Or he wouldn’t degrade us by bringing louts from the greenwood amongst us—boys whom our fathers would have disdained to set to mind their swine,” said Drogo.
“Probably your ancestor himself was a swineherd in Normandy, while mine were Thanes in England, and their courteous manners have descended to you,” retorted Martin; whereupon Drogo laid his bowstring about his daring junior.
Forgetting all disparity of age, the youngster flew at him, and struck him full between the eyes with his clenched fist; the other boys, instead of interfering, laughed heartily at the scene, and watched its development with interest, thinking Martin would get a good switching. But they forgot one thing, or rather did not know it. Boxing was not a knightly exercise, not taught in the tilt yard, and Drogo could only use his natural weapons as a French boy uses his now. But in the greenwood it was different, and young Martin had been left again and again, as a part of a sound education, to “hold his own” against his equals in age and size, by aid of the noble art of fisticuffs; what wonder then that Drogo’s eyes were speedily several shades darker than nature had designed them to be, of which there was no obvious need, and that victory would probably have decked the brows of the younger combatant had not the elders interfered.
“This is no work for a gentleman.”