By the aid of a glare of torches the sub-officers began to tell off the men of their respective divisions, but ere that could be accomplished the word was given that Sir Oliver's son was missing.
Thinking that some foul attempt had been made upon his charge, Arnold Gripwell seized a torch and ran to the lad's apartment. It was empty. His couch had not been slept on, but instead a sealed letter lay upon the pillow.
With trembling fingers the man-at-arms broke the seals and read the contents—
"Arnold Gripwell,—I have set out, with God's blessing, to endeavour to do some small deed of advancement. Do not, I charge thee, attempt to follow or hinder me. Meanwhile the ordering of Taillemartel is in thy hands.—Geoffrey."
For a while the old soldier gazed at the missive without realizing its meaning. The lad had gone, but whither? With bowed head and clasped hands Gripwell knelt before the prie-dieu till the grey dawn gained the mastery over the shades of night, craving for Divine protection for his errant charge.
CHAPTER X
THE EVE OF ST. SILVESTER
Across the vast plain that surrounded the gloomy Castle of Malevereux streamed a long straggling line of people, all making towards the open gateway of Sir Yves' feudal pile.
There were merchants from Rouen, soberly attired and wearing long straight swords as a protection against the perils of the roads; peasants of both sexes, striving to overcome the deep-rooted sense of fear in spite of the assured immunity of goods and person for one day in the whole year; men-at-arms and archers, unarmed save for the short knives that hung from their belts; and a sprinkling of knights, monks, palmers, jongleurs, and minstrels.
Amongst Sir Yves' thus generally invited guests limped a lad, footsore and weary, meanly dressed in coarse gaberdine, doublet, and points. It was Geoffrey, son of Oliver, Lord of Warblington.