“Roger Ferrers has gone with the duke to bargain with the Scots. Fulk Ferrers, the duke’s riding forester, lords it here. I am he. Come, let’s have no more scuffling—even with words.”
She sprang up suddenly.
“The riding forester! Messire Fulk Ferrers! Good, very good! Messire Fulk, I make you a curtsy. Maybe, you can tell the slot of a deer from the hoof-mark of a mule, even if you cannot tell a man from a woman. Messire Fulk, since you are gentle born, I will dare to wish you good-night.”
“You can wish me with the devil, madam, but it will be good-morrow in the White Lodge over yonder. Am I a fool?”
“Oh—well, but not a gallant fool! You will let me go?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I said nay to you.”
“So have better men before now—and repented of it.”
He was challenged, despite his boyish shrewdness, by a laughing audacity in the woman’s voice. Her meek mood was no more than spilt milk. She walked beside him with a swinging motion and an air of provocative insolence, and though her face was a mere grey blur he could imagine a curling of the lips and a gleaming of the eyes.