“He has the King’s ring upon his finger.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Fulk’s eyes were cold as a frost, and a great and bitter scorn possessed him. He had kept faith with the King and his lords, and now that they no longer needed him they had gone about to be rid of so dangerous a friend by setting bravos to murder him.
Fulk had a sullen face when they sat down under the yew tree to make their morning meal, nor did Isoult vex him with much talking. Her own scorn was up in arms. She thought of Knollys and Cavendish, and of the way they had brought them down to the Black Mere and left them to be set upon and butchered by ruffians and outlaws in charge of an arch-rebel. And somehow she could not believe it—could not believe that Knollys knew.
“Are you sure it is the King’s ring?”
He answered her grimly:
“I wore it on my own finger.”
“Yet I could swear that Knollys knows nothing of it.”
“You think that? It would be strange if he did not!”
His voice was sharp with scorn.