The young knight administered a ruthless kick to the prostrate steward, which sent that man of wealth rolling into the blazing embers.
The kick and the brisk fire roused Master Lambert Reve to something like consciousness and sobriety. He rose upon all fours (the threatening heel of Mowbray, armed with a terrible spur, and raised, from time to time, above his head, forbidding him to adopt a more dignified position), and whimpered out a lament that an honest serving-man should be thus treated after riding, at risk of neck and limb, to apprise his masters of a matter threatening their family honour.
“Come to the point,” said Mowbray, raising his heel.
“Master Jack, with Tom Simcox, and Will the Tanner’s son, and young Hob Smith, and others, stole a buck this morning. They have been taken by Sir Simon Ballard’s keepers. Sir Simon swears he will have law of all, gentle and simple. They are in the cage at Maldyke,” the steward rattled out, with marvellous clearness and volubility.
“So they were the lads we met. Fear nothing, Madam. My young wag shall come to no harm. Where is this Maldyke?”
“A league and a half from here, by the road you came.”
“Enough. You may get up. Lads, to horse! Jean, en veux-tu?”
“De quoi?”
“Des coups.”
“Toujours.”