Then he thought of victuals and water. The well was round behind the wood lodge, and Fulk drew several buckets, carried them in, and filled every empty jug and crock that he could find. He caught a couple of fowls, wrung their necks, and hung them in the larder. Nor were faggots forgotten; there was a stack of them behind the house, and Fulk made sure of having fuel for the baking of their bread.
When he climbed the ladder into the loft he found that Isoult had discovered an old hauberk and a rusty helmet with a face guard and had armed herself to mighty good purpose. She was at the window, with an arrow ready on the string.
“I have brought down another bird.”
He chided her.
“Heart of mine, can you never leave death alone?”
He dropped his vizor, and, drawing her aside, took her place at the window. Merlin’s men were scattered along the further bank, watching for something tangible to shoot at.
Fulk counted them.
“Seventeen trailbastons left. We have settled eight between us this morning.”
Even as he spoke, an arrow flew in at the window and stuck in the opposite wall.
“They have marked us down. If we keep to this one window their arrows will fly in like wasps.”