He laughed.
“What—a fool of a monk with a club! I know that sort of clumsy savage. It will be mere murder.”
But she would not betray her fear.
“Have it so. Strange things happen—even to kings.”
Martin saw all this, and his wrath blew like a north wind. He had guessed the name of the red knight and knew the man with whom he had to deal. It would be no easy business, setting about this notable sworder and captain with nothing but a green holly stake, but somehow Martin had no doubts as to how the battle would end. His cold fury was so intense and so fanatical that it resembled a fate that was not to be stayed or turned back.
Fulk de Lisle and Mellis were nearing the fir woods, and Martin put his horse at a canter and drew up within fifty yards. De Lisle had no spear; that was something in Martin’s favor, though his long sword would be deadly enough in so strong and cunning a hand. Martin had a shrewd notion as to how he ought to fight the man; if he could dismount him and get to close grips De Lisle’s heavy armor would make him clumsy and slow.
The shadows of the firs swept over them, and they were in among the crowded trunks, riding down a narrow track that seemed to lose itself in the distant gloom. Martin drew closer, teeth set, his heavy truncheon ready on his shoulder.
Fulk de Lisle turned in the saddle and looked back at him. He had drawn his sword.
“My friend, be warned in time. Turn back, or I shall kill you.”
Martin said never a word, but drew closer, his eyes shining in a dead-white face.