“No. A pennon and spears.”
She drew away and sprang up, shading her eyes with her hand, the hot colour out of her face.
“It is Knollys! Surely it is Knollys!”
Fulk stood in the shade of the yew.
“Yes, it is Knollys. How many men can you count? Thirty, if there is one. He has come to bury us, perhaps, or to do Merlin’s work if Merlin should have failed.”
“Fulk, I’ll not believe it.”
“We shall know the truth soon enough. Stay here.”
He took his sword, and, walking down to the water’s edge, posted himself there like a sentinel, the point of his sword grounded, his hands resting on the pommel. Knollys and his men came riding down towards the mere, the sunlight flashing on their harness, for the gentry rode armed through the months that followed the rising.
Knollys tossed his spear, but Fulk did not move. He mistrusted all men that morning.
“Hail, hail!”