“Nay, uncle, how can I tell, seeing that his face was masked like the rest and he spoke through an interpreter? But I pray you go on with the story, which Godwin has not heard.”
“It is short. When Rosamund told her tale of which I could make little, for the girl was crazed with grief and cold and fear, save that you had been attacked upon the old quay, and she had escaped by swimming Death Creek—which seemed a thing incredible—I got together what men I could. Then bidding her stay behind, with some of them to guard her, and nurse herself, which she was loth to do, I set out to find you or your bodies. It was dark, but we rode hard, having lanterns with us, as we went rousing men at every stead, until we came to where the roads join at Moats. There we found a black horse—your horse, Godwin—so badly wounded that he could travel no further, and I groaned, thinking that you were dead. Still we went on, till we heard another horse whinny, and presently found the roan also riderless, standing by the path-side with his head down.
“‘A man on the ground holds him!’ cried one, and I sprang from the saddle to see who it might be, to find that it was you, the pair of you, locked in each other’s arms and senseless, if not dead, as well you might be from your wounds. I bade the country-folk cover you up and carry you home, and others to run to Stangate and pray the Prior and the monk Stephen, who is a doctor, come at once to tend you, while we pressed onwards to take vengeance if we could. We reached the quay upon the creek, but there we found nothing save some bloodstains and—this is strange—your sword, Godwin, the hilt set between two stones, and on the point a writing.”
“What was the writing?” asked Godwin.
“Here it is,” answered his uncle, drawing a piece of parchment from his robe. “Read it, one of you, since all of you are scholars and my eyes are bad.”
Rosamund took it and read what was written, hurriedly but in a clerkly hand, and in the French tongue. It ran thus: “The sword of a brave man. Bury it with him if he be dead, and give it back to him if he lives, as I hope. My master would wish me to do this honour to a gallant foe whom in that case he still may meet. (Signed) Hugh Lozelle, or Another.”
“Another, then; not Hugh Lozelle,” said Godwin, “since he cannot write, and if he could, would never pen words so knightly.”
“The words may be knightly, but the writer’s deeds were base enough,” replied Sir Andrew; “nor, in truth do I understand this scroll.”
“The interpreter spoke of the short man as his master,” suggested Wulf.
“Ay, nephew; but him you met. This writing speaks of a master whom Godwin may meet, and who would wish the writer to pay him a certain honour.”