“Who were they besides, Sir Robert Fitzsimmon and Richard de Beaumont who helped you when you were down, my son?” asked the King.
The Prince looked about him.
“I know not, Sire. Many, but here is one of them,” and he pointed to Hugh, who just then appeared within the circle of the firelight. “I think that he slew the Count Louis of Flanders.”
“Ah!” said the King, “our young merchant of Dunwich—a gallant man. Kneel you down, merchant of Dunwich.”
Hugh knelt, and the King, taking the red sword from his hand, struck him with it on the shoulder, saying:
“Rise, Sir Hugh de Cressi, for now I give you that boon which your deathfaced servant asked before the battle. You have served us, or rather England well, both of you. But whose armour is that the archer carries, Sir Hugh?”
“Sir Edmund Acour’s, lord de Noyon, Sire, only, alack! another man was within the armour.”
“Your meaning?” said the King briefly, and in few words Hugh told the tale.
“A strange story, Sir Hugh. It would seem that God fought against you in this matter. Also I am wroth; my orders were that none of my men should sally out, though I fear me that you are not the only one who has broken them, and for your great deeds I forgive you.”
“Sire,” said Hugh, dropping to his knee again, “a boon. This de Noyon, your enemy and mine, has cheated and mocked me. Grant to me and my servant, Richard the archer, permission to follow after him and be avenged upon him.”