"None likely to cheer thy heart," answered the host of the Falcon. "Thou knowest the Vipseys, in Yorkshire?"
"Ay do I," said my grandsire; "they are brooks that rise every other year out of springs, and rush rapidly to the sea near the promontory called Flamborough."
"And thou knowest," continued Thomelin, "that their drying up is deemed a good sign, and that their running is held to be a sure presage of famine or pestilence?"
"I have so heard in other days," said my grandsire contemptuously; "but then, again, I have known them run, and better run, and neither plague nor famine come in consequence."
"Anyhow," said Thomelin, not caring to dispute the point, "we are almost certain to have more war."
"More war?" exclaimed my grandsire.
"By my faith," said Thomelin, "little doubt can there be as to that. Think how matters now stand. King Edward makes a peace with Philip of Valois, and, not just in the best humour, comes home; and no sooner is his back turned than Philip causes twelve knights of Brittany—all our king's friends and allies—to be arrested, without rhyme or reason, and beheaded without trial."
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed my grandsire.
"Well," continued Thomelin, "all the kinsmen of the murdered men have taken up arms; and Godfrey Harcourt, one of the great lords of Normandy, has come to England, and got a promise from King Edward to avenge them. Everybody who knows aught of King Edward knows what that means."
"Doubtless," said my grandsire, "it means such a war as has not been seen in thy time."