“I have Odgers here, and another fellow who knew the Dales, and could swear to the son.”
Roger Bland turned in his seat and looked out over the Forest. It was as noble a view as a man could desire, a world of green valleys and distant hills blue on the horizon. The lord of Troy Castle smiled as he sat there high up in the tower, a sly, cynical smile of self-congratulation. The Forest lay at his feet; he was its master. Even the thought of the cruel strength he had shown in taming it pleased him, for, like many men who lack brute physical courage, he was cleverly and shrewdly cruel.
“How many years, Vance, is it since that day when we smoked the Dales out of Woodmere?”
“Seven, this June, sir.”
“Old Dale had sent his cubs away. What is the young gadfly doing in Gawdy Town?”
“Playing the viol and singing songs, with bells in his cap. He goes out of nights, I hear, but my men say that it is to Petticoat Lane.”
“Many things are hatched in a brothel, Vance. And the girl?”
“Plays the lute and sings. A haughty young madam, they say, with eyes quick to stab a man.”
“There is no whisper of secret work, no playing for Harry Richmond?”
Vance shook his big head solemnly.