At Beggars Thorn they reined in, for here Knollys and his men were to turn back.
“There is no more kick in Master Adam. You will not be troubled. Cavendish will see you housed.”
He slung Fulk a fat wallet.
“Wine and dainties, my son. God speed you.”
He drew close and these two embraced, for comrade’s love—man’s love—had sprung up between them.
“Grace to you, Master Bertrand.”
He looked at Isoult, and smiled.
“The knave of a boy! How could you cock your chin at me. Farewell, farewell!”
He left them the guide and turned back with his men for London town.
It was evening—a still, June evening—when they came towards the Black Mere. Heathlands sloped to a deep valley, where woods of birch and of beech threw light and heavy shadows. The track followed a long, winding strip of grassland knee deep with grass and flowers, and into it opened the woodland ways, tunnels of mystery.