“The slaying of Vance, sir, was very natural, and I take it that Swartz fell by the same hand. This bastard priest is something of an enigma. How did he come by armor and a sword? Such things do not grow in the Forest.”
Roger Bland’s pale eyelids seemed to flicker.
“We must see the end and bottom of this affair. I have given John Rich the adventure; I give you John Rich. Is that plain to you?”
“Most plain, my lord.”
“See that this business is carried through. I want the Forest’s secret—if it is keeping a secret. I care not how it is come by.”
Fulk de Lisle bowed.
“You have a spacious way, my lord, of sending a gentleman upon your business. We are not cramped and hindered by little abominations of the law. It is an honor to serve you.”
And he went out with the air of a man who knew himself to be shrewder than his master.
Such were the preparations that were maturing at Troy Castle on the night after Martin Valliant’s defeat of Swartz and his men. John Rich took the road next morning, while Martin was improving his footbridge, and Mellis was chastening the hot vanities of young Nigel Blount. Martin had brought the three horses over the mere, stabled them in the old dining hall, pulled up the bridge and shut the gate. He took life with great seriousness, but his heart was full of a new song.
Martin was shaping a new oak bar for the garden postern when Peter Swartz came out of the orchard for a gossip. He had slept passably and eaten better, though his legs were none too steady under him.