“Ah, the birch trees! I remember.”
He looked at her curiously, but she went straight to the rest-house and shut herself in. Something seemed to have gone very amiss with her that day, and Martin was honestly perplexed. Were women made of such wayward stuff that some dust, a wood of birch trees, and perhaps a few flies, could stir such spirited discontent?
He took her horse to the stable, fed and groomed him as though he were my lady’s servant. And again he examined the beast’s feet, only to discover something that was singular. One of the hind hoofs had red clay balled in it, and Martin Valliant knew that red clay was not to be found in that part of the Forest.
He picked the stuff out and stared at it, holding it in one palm.
“Oakshot is yellow, Bracknell is black,
Troy is as white as a miller’s sack,
The Paradise fields are as brown as wood,
But red is the color of Bloody Rood.”
He called to mind the old Forest jingle, and the reddish-yellow lump in his hand rhymed with it.
“Bloody Rood? That is the Blount’s lordship. Young Nigel holds the fee.”