Then at length Eve spoke in a voice that rang like steel:
“Get you gone, knave, whose spurs should be hacked from your heels by scullions. Get you gone, traitor and liar, for well I know that Hugh de Cressi is not dead, who had a certain tale to tell of you to the King of England. Get you back to the Duke of Normandy and there ask the price of your betrayal of your liege lord, Edward, and show him the plans of our eastern coast and the shores where his army may land in safety.”
Acour sprang to his feet and his face went white as ashes. Thrice he strove to speak but could not. Then with a curse he turned and left the chamber.
“The hunt’s up,” said Father Nicholas when he had heard all this tale a little later, “and now, lord, I think that you had better away to France, unless you desire to stop without companions in the church yonder.”
“Ay, priest, I’ll away, but by God’s blood, I’ll take that Red Eve with me! For one thing she knows too much to leave her behind. For a second I mean to pay her back, and for a third, although you may think it strange, I’m mad for her. I tell you she looked wondrous standing with her back against that wall, her marble face never wincing when I told her all the lie about young de Cressi’s death—which will be holy truth when I get a chance at him—watching me out of those great, dark eyes of hers.”
“Doubtless, lord, but how did she look when she called you knave and traitor? I think you said those were her wicked words. Oh!” he added with a ring of earnestness in his smooth voice, “let this Red Eve be. At bed or board she’s no mate for you. Something fights at her side, be it angel or devil, or just raw chance. At the least she’ll prove your ruin unless you let her be.”
“Then I’ll be ruined, Nicholas, for I’ll not leave her, for a while, at any rate. What! de Noyon, whom they call Danger of Dames, beaten by a country girl who has never seen London or Paris! I’d sooner die.”
“As well may chance if the country lad and the country archer come back with Edward’s warrant in their pouch,” answered the priest, shrugging his lean shoulders. “Well, lord, what is your plan?”
“To carry her off. Can’t we manage nine stone of womanhood between us?”
“If she were dead it might be done, though hardly—over these Suffolk roads. But being very much alive with a voice to scream with, hands to fight with, a brain to think with and friends who know her from here to Yarmouth, or to Hull, and Monsieur Grey Dick’s arrows pricking us behind perchance—well, I don’t know.”