Aymer folded his arms over the shaft of his battle axe and laughed grimly.
"In this world methinks small need have we to fear your reverence; and as for the next world we will chance it. But be advised: tax us not with threats; our patience is likely to be short."
"And ours is gone entirely—do you, Sir John de Bury, approve this rash youth's sacrilege?"
"Aye, that I do," De Bury answered, his face set as stone.
"Are you both mad?" the Abbot exclaimed.
"Yea, that we are," replied De Lacy. "Mad with anger and resentment. Can you guess why?"
The monk made no answer save a sneer.
"Listen, and you and your underlings shall hear: One evening a month or so aback—your memory, good father, will serve you whether it was one, or two, or three—a certain demoiselle styled Countess of Clare, Maid to Her Majesty, the Queen of England, while near the Hermit's Cell in the escort of Sir John de Bury, her uncle and guardian, was waylaid and by force and violence seized upon and carried off. And though there was hue and cry and searchings without rest, yet it was unavailing."
"Certes, we know all these matters," Aldam broke in angrily.
"Yes, you know them—and much more."