They reined in on the farther bank, not knowing that dead men had been dragged by the heels into the thickets. But Merlin’s raft of tree trunks lay in the shallows and Knollys eyed it and looked puzzled.
They could see Isoult under the yew tree, and Fulk standing in his harness by the water’s edge, and looking more like an enemy than a friend. Knollys’ face darkened. He spoke sharply to Cavendish, who set his horse beside him.
“Somehow, I smell blood here. And I see no boat.”
He looked across at Fulk, who had not moved, but waited there as though ready to fight any man who should seek to land.
Knollys dismounted, and, climbing down the bank, stepped on to Merlin’s craft that lay among the flags and sedges. It was solid enough, and the rough paddles were there just as the men had left them, but Knollys stepped ashore again and called Cavendish to him.
“Something has flown askew here. Unbuckle this harness of mine. I am going over on this noble ship and may have to swim for it. The lad over yonder looks as though he were in a white rage and ready to fight all Christendom.”
He left his sword and armour with Cavendish, put on his cote-hardie, and, calling two unarmed servants down to the water, bade them take the paddles and ferry him over. It was a slow and a devious passage, the raft doing its best to spin in a circle, for the paddles were clumsy tools. Knollys stood with his feet well apart on the tree-trunks, watching Fulk with increasing curiosity.
“Hold there! Sir Robert Knollys, let those fellows of yours keep their places. I will speak with you—alone.”
His hands were on the hilt of his sword, his head held high, his eyes dangerous.
Knollys sprang ashore.