Lambert's humour, deep-hidden, was touched at last. "Press on to York, by your leave. Mallory, I'm in your debt. I doubted your good faith just now."
"That was unwise, Lambert. Eh, man, the troubled days will soon be ended—then, if we're both alive, come sup with me as of old."
Kit, when they took the road again, was bewildered a little by the shifting issues of this madness known as civil war. The Prince, Lambert, and Sir John—three men conspicuously survivals from Crusading days—had talked in the High Street of honour and punctilio—-had shown the extreme courtesy of knights prepared to tilt against each other in the ring at any moment—-and all this with the assault of Bolton and the red havoc of it scarcely ended, with rough fights ahead, and York's garrison in piteous need of succour.
"Why so moody, li'le Christopher?" asked Michael, riding at his brother's bridle-hand.
"I fancied war was simple, and I'm losing myself among the mists, somehow."
"An old trick of yours. Mistress Joan taught it you. There was a lady, too, in Knaresborough, who gave you lessons in the pastime."
"But this Captain Lambert is besieging Skipton, and Mallory defends it, and one asks the other to sup with him when the affair is over. That is not stark fighting, Michael."
"Why not, lad? Lambert's cannon will thunder just as merrily when the truce is ended. The world jogs after that fashion."
It was when they were pressing on to York the next day—after a brief night's sleep in the open and a breakfast captured by each man as best he could—that the Prince rode back to the white company of horses that carried the Metcalf clan. He reined about on finding Michael.
"You found your way into York once for me, sir. You will do it a second time. Bid them be ready. Tell them we travel as quickly as may be, and sorties from their three main gates, when the moment comes, will be of service."