“He is with us now. He went into the woods to raise an alarm, while I saved Mellis. Warn your men that he is a friend.”
Martin and John Falconer passed on into the courtyard, and the Forest followed them with a tossing of torches, and much grim jubilation. The men were as diverse and rustic as their weapons. Oak clubs, scythe blades on poles, axes, spits, wooden mallets, all came dancing into the yard of Woodmere. Many of the men had bows on their backs and arrows stuck in their belts. Not a few were wounded. There were bloody faces, arms that hung limp, stockings soaked all red. But the crowd was hot, triumphant, and fiercely merry; they had tasted blood; many vile things had been avenged.
“Look to your wounds, lads. Lay a fire, some of you. We have come far, and no man is grudged his supper.”
Several of the Forest gentry gathered around Falconer, and looked curiously at Martin Valliant.
“Is this the fellow?”
“He has some limbs on him.”
“But a runaway priest, gentles, is black company. What say you?”
Falconer answered them gruffly:
“And what are we but traitors, so long as Crookback wears the crown! Men who can fight are the blood and muscle of such a venture as ours. Use your wits, gentlemen. We are not women to tilt our noses and screw up our mouths.”
Martin had drawn aside. He felt a stranger and almost an outcast under the eyes of these mesne lords who stared at him and did not lower their voices. The mysterious and solitary nights and days had vanished. He saw Mellis surrounded by a crowd of figures, knights, yeomen, foresters. They seemed to thrust him back into the darkness; he had served his purpose and no one held out a hand.