“Aha! And I hold a manor of his,” said Ivo to himself. “Look you, villains, this fellow is in league with you.”
A burst of abject denial followed. “Since the French,—since Sir Frederick, as they call him, drove him out of his Wrokesham lands, he wanders the country, as you see: to-day here, but Heaven only knows where he will be to-morrow.”
“And finds, of course, a friend everywhere. Now march!” And a string of threats and curses followed.
It was hard to see why Wulfric should not have found friends; as he was simply a small holder, or squire, driven out of house and land, and turned adrift on the wide world, for the offence of having fought in Harold’s army at the battle of Hastings. But to give him food or shelter was, in Norman eyes, an act of rebellion against the rightful King William; and Ivo rode on, boiling over with righteous indignation, along the narrow drove which led toward Deeping.
A pretty lass came along the drove, driving a few sheep before her, and spinning as she walked.
“Whose lass are you?” shouted Ivo.
“The Abbot of Crowland’s, please your lordship,” said she, trembling.
“Much too pretty to belong to monks. Chuck her up behind you, one of you.”
The shrieking and struggling girl was mounted behind a horseman and bound, and Ivo rode on.
A woman ran out of a turf-hut on the drove side, attracted by the girl’s cries. It was her mother.