Geraint looked hard at Vance over the top of his mug.
“Here—in Paradise! Rabbits, man! I know everything that happens in Paradise.”
“Who doubts it? But this is a great gibe, with that woolly-noddled saint of yours serving as father confessor!”
“I miss the scent, my friend.”
“You and I can keep each other’s secrets. There is some trouble brewing about here, though I have not got to the bottom of it as yet. Old Dale’s cubs had sneaked back out of France; we sighted them in Gawdy Town. We have the young man’s brush, and now I am after the girl. She is going to ride to Troy with me.”
Geraint’s black eyes were on the alert.
“I know nothing of all this, gossip. Where are you going to find the lady?”
“On the Black Moor.”
“What!”
“Under the protection of St. Florence and Brother Martin, and taking her sleep in your rest-house.”