“What’s the time?” Hugh asked, peering across the hall at the windows, which were squares of blackness.
“Past two and nipping cold. Are you fit to ride back to the field with us?”
For answer Hugh staggered to his feet, marvelling at the stiffness in his legs, and tried to hold himself erect. “Here, on with this,” said Strangwayes, throwing a cloak about him. “I judged ’twas yours, and if ’tis not, the man who left his goods so careless deserves to lose them. And slip this sash over your sword-belt. It was Ned Griffith’s, but he’ll not need—”
“He’s not dead?” Hugh broke out.
“No, no; but he’ll be of little more use than a dead man for the next four months. Slash in the breast and his leg broke by some of our horse as he lay. You’ll need to look you out a new cornet, Captain Turner.”
“They dropped my lieutenant, too, down by Kineton,” said Turner, putting by his glass. “Gwyeth’s troop and mine, there on the flank, we suffered for it. Do you judge those knaves will have the horses saddled ere daybreak?”
“Is there more fighting to come?” Hugh questioned sleepily, as he tried to tie the scarlet sash across his chest.
“Enough to flesh that maiden sword of yours,” Turner paused at the door to reply. “By the bye, Master Strangwayes, is it true that Captain Peyton was slain in the charge? He owes me five sovereign on my wager that neither side could call the day theirs, and if he has got himself killed!” Turner shrugged his shoulders and passed out.
“What has brought him hither?” Hugh yawned.
“Poor old lad! Eat a bit and try to wake up,” urged Strangwayes. “What has brought Michael Turner? Why, his love for that poor little troop he let get so wofully peppered in the fight. He has been ravaging the country for a horse-load of bread with which to fill their stomachs, ere the battle he is sure will come this day. And now, question for question, what brings you here, so far from Colonel Gwyeth?”