“Nothing to boast of. Get a light.”
The fellow made way for them, and went to light a torch at the embers that still glowed on the round hearth in the centre of the hall. He yawned hugely and scratched his head, the torch, as it flared up, throwing on the wall a large and shadowy travesty of a round head and a jogging elbow. Fulk rebarred the door, and the woman Isoult went to warm herself before the glowing ashes.
The forester turned, yawning in her face; but astonishment proved stronger than the incipient yawn.
“Strike me bloody—a woman!”
He held the torch high, and put his face near to hers. His breath, and the sodden hardness of his eyes told her that he was too fond of the mead horn.
“Hey, you hen-harrier! Master, it be a woman.”
Fulk turned on him fiercely.
“Kennel up, you fool of a sot! Put the torch in a bracket. Now, go and fetch us a jug of cider and some bread and honey. Hurry!”
The man blinked and went off yawning, but Fulk called him back before he reached the door leading towards the kitchen quarters.
“Dame Ferrers is abed?”