“I am not Acour, lord of Noyon,” said the dying man in a hollow voice. “Had you given me time I would have told you so.”
“Then, in Christ’s name, who are you?” asked Hugh, “that wear de Noyon’s cognizance?”
“I am Pierre de la Roche, one of his knights. You have seen me in England. I was with him there, and you made me prisoner on Dunwich heath. He bade me change arms with him before the battle, promising me great reward, because he knew that if he were taken, Edward of England would hang him as a traitor, whereas me they might ransom. Also, he feared your vengeance.”
“Well, of a truth, you have the reward,” said Dick, looking at his ghastly wound.
“Where then is Acour?” gasped Hugh.
“I know not. He fled from the battle an hour ago with the King of France, but I who was doomed would not fly. Oh, that I could find a priest to shrive me!”
“Whither does he fly?” asked Hugh again.
“I know not. He said that if the battle went against us he would seek his castle in Italy, where Edward cannot reach him.”
“What armour did he wear?” asked Dick.
“Mine, mine—a wolf upon his shield, a wolf’s head for crest.”