“Stingless!” replied Front-de-Bœuf; “fork-headed shafts of a cloth-yard in length, and these shot within the breadth of a French crown, are sting enough.”
“For shame, Sir Knight!” said the Templar. “Let us summon our people, and sally forth upon them. One knight—ay, one man-at-arms, were enough for twenty such peasants.”
“Enough, and too much,” said De Bracy; “I should only be ashamed to couch lance against them.”
“True,” answered Front-de-Bœuf; “were they black Turks or Moors, Sir Templar, or the craven peasants of France, most valiant De Bracy; but these are English yeomen, over whom we shall have no advantage, save what we may derive from our arms and horses, which will avail us little in the glades of the forest. Sally, saidst thou? we have scarce men enough to defend the castle. The best of mine are at York; so is all your band, De Bracy; and we have scarcely twenty, besides the handful that were engaged in this mad business.”
“Thou dost not fear,” said the Templar, “that they can assemble in force sufficient to attempt the castle?”
“Not so, Sir Brian,” answered Front-de-Bœuf. “These outlaws have indeed a daring captain; but without machines, scaling ladders, and experienced leaders, my castle may defy them.”
“Send to thy neighbours,” said the Templar, “let them assemble their people, and come to the rescue of three knights, besieged by a jester and a swineherd in the baronial castle of Reginald Front-de-Bœuf!”
“You jest, Sir Knight,” answered the baron; “but to whom should I send?—Malvoisin is by this time at York with his retainers, and so are my other allies; and so should I have been, but for this infernal enterprise.”
“Then send to York, and recall our people,” said De Bracy. “If they abide the shaking of my standard, or the sight of my Free Companions, I will give them credit for the boldest outlaws ever bent bow in green-wood.”
“And who shall bear such a message?” said Front-de-Bœuf; “they will beset every path, and rip the errand out of his bosom.—I have it,” he added, after pausing for a moment—“Sir Templar, thou canst write as well as read, and if we can but find the writing materials of my chaplain, who died a twelvemonth since in the midst of his Christmas carousals—”