“Roger Bland’s watchdog. And you will hang for it, Martin Valliant, in spite of twenty St. Benedicts. The Lord of Troy is not gentle with those who flout him.”
He answered sullenly, “If I hang—I hang.”
Mellis went closer, and looked steadily into his face.
“And I, Martin Valliant, I shall hang on the same gibbet.”
He threw his head back, with a tightening of the mouth and a hardening of the eyes.
“God forbid!”
“Roger Bland of Troy will not forbid it. We shall hang, Martin Valliant, unless——”
He opened and shut his hands as though blindly striving to grip the truth.
“I am a broken man—but you——”
“Broken, say you? And before God—why? What are we but rebels, outlaws, so long as Crookback rules and such hounds as Bland hunt at his bidding? My troth is pledged to another king. Broken?—never! What, shall I not fight for my life against my enemies—aye, and with a good heart? And you, Martin Valliant?”