"No doubt, brother. The tale will warm me by and by. Meanwhile I don't care a stiver what fire shone in my lady's eyes—blue, or grey, or black. Give me honest ale, of the true nut-brown colour."
"You're a wastrel, Michael," laughed the younger brother, glad to pass badinage again with one of his own folk.
"I am, my lad, and know it. There's luck in being a wastrel—folk expect nothing from a man. He goes free, while such as you—babe Kit, if you guessed how prisoned up you are! They look for sorties, gallops against odds, moonshine of all sorts every day you live. You've a nickname already in Oxford. They name you the White Knight."
"Oh, be done with banter," snapped Christopher. "There's little knighthood about me. Let's get down to camp and see the colour of that ale of yours."
When they came to the heathery, rising land wide of Bolton, and the sentry had passed them forward, Kit found himself face to face with Prince Rupert once again.
"The White Knight brings news," Michael explained in his off-handed way.
"Pleasant news?" the Prince asked. "Is Rigby dead, or the siege raised?"
"By your leave," said Kit, "the siege is raised. Rigby has gone to Bolton-le-Moors, to hide there. He has what are left of his three thousand men, and fifteen hundred others. The town is strong."
"Good, sir!" Fire—deep, glowing fire—showed in Rupert's eyes. "Lady Derby is a kinswoman of mine; and if Rigby is in Bolton, I know where to find the fox she loathes."
A big, tired figure of a man pushed his way through the soldiery. "I heard someone speak of Lady Derby?" he said.