“Sir?”
“Leave my helmet on the grass. Tell my gentlemen to ride back straight to the city. I follow—with a friend.”
He and Fulk waited, sitting their horses in the midst of the river, while the company of spears turned and rode off with a churning of dust into the aspen wood. The thunder of the horses’ hoofs had nearly died away before Knollys stirred.
“Come.”
They splashed through to the northern bank together. A vizored bassinet lay on the grass beside the road, and Knollys pointed to it, and glanced meaningly at Fulk.
“Cover your face, my son. A good hawk will not bate at being hooded.”
As they rode towards the city through the fields and orchards, Knollys desired to hear Fulk’s adventures and all that he could tell him of the temper of the rebels in the south, and he in turn was frank with Fulk, unbarring his thoughts to him as to a comrade in arms.
“No such thing as this would have happened,” said he, “with the sire or the grandsire ruling. There is no master, and the country has lost its wits, every man cowering in a corner and afraid to utter one bold word for fear of a cutthroat.”
“Where are the great lords and their people?”
“Man, I know not! The King can count on no more than five hundred spears in London, and the city scum is said to be with the rebels. The country is besotted with apathy and fear. Never in my life have I seen such poltroonery—the men who should be in the saddle turned to a crowd of old women. I am asking myself whether this can be the England that sent our armies to trample upon France.”