"In good sooth, this English wine warms the blood in this cursed land of fogs," apologized William, draining his horn. "But I must have some of your best varlets at my back, Fulke--fellows who know the country, and plenty of them."
"Trust me, I will let fly my best trained hawks for such game as this, man! These reverend justices shall have a fair retinue to Bedford--a noble train! Take heart o' grace. Think thee of thy vengeance. It is a De Pateshulle that is the booty!"
"Ha! a De Pateshulle!" exclaimed William, screwing up his courage still further by another drink. Then he added sulkily, "Would it were the niece and not the uncle!"
Fulke smiled grimly.
"And why not?" he asked quietly.
William, half stupified as he was fast becoming, saw the development of a new plot.
"Pardie! That proud maiden here! Helpless--a prisoner! Niece snared with the uncle! Ha, ha!" he cried, his eyes rolling excitedly. "Ha, my lady! who would say me nay a second time? Not you, by St. Denis, I warrant me!" and he laughed wildly. "Travel they together, say you? Father Martin to Bletsoe--the haughty lady to Dunstable; nay, beshrew me, it is Father Martin to Dunstable, and--"
Here he fell forward on the table and burst into a maudlin giggle. Sir Fulke rose, pushed the wine-flagon out of his reach, and called to two varlets from the hall to carry his brother off to bed.
CHAPTER VIII.
JUSTICE IN BONDS.