“I was going to ride to the Hall. Where can we speak together?”
“Come to the Maid and Garland. And look more blithe! The Turks have not entered England.”
The Maid and Garland had a parlour for Sir Robert—oh, always! They went into a little panelled room, and Somerville turned upon the younger man, the burgher’s son. “Well?”
“I saw it in a flash.”
“Saw what?”
“Much, Somerville! You held Morgen Fay in your hand there at the ruined farm. Plotters to become as great at least as Saint Leofric could not have gotten at her, she could not have joined with them without your knowing! Oh, and I saw, too, that land that you got at last without trouble, after years and years of trouble!”
“Let me alone!” said Somerville hoarsely. “You young fool!”
“From all that I can hear she has not said your name, not once! It was of her own movement, once Abbey and Priory would promise her safety and London town and gold. ‘Thou monstrous witch! Thou daughter of the Father of Lies!’ crieth Silver Cross and Westforest and Middle Forest; aye, even, I hear now, Saint Leofric. But for all that, Robert—”
“‘Robert’?”