Fulk scanned him from head to heel; his nostrils dilating a little, his mouth twitching with scorn. He bided there silently like a hound of the blood waiting to hear a strange cur snarl at him.
Guy the Stallion gave him a swaggering salute with his sword.
“Master Fulk Ferrers, greeting. I have twenty men at my back, and none of us love John of Gaunt and his creatures. I charge you to throw down that sword of yours, and stand up like a good lad.”
Fulk’s stare was like the thrust of a spear. The doorway was full of hairy faces, of brown smocks and fists that held flails, scythe-blades on poles, clubs, bows, bill-hooks—a boor’s armoury.
Fulk showed them an ironical courtesy, a storm sign in a young man of his temper.
“Sir Hacksword, I am much beholden to you. That blade of yours looks as though it had seen wonderful adventures. Step in, knights and gentles all; the honour is mine to be visited by so fair a company.”
His scorn struck them like a north wind, and made the swashbuckler’s forked beard thrust itself out more fiercely.
“This sword was hammering the French when you were a mere toddler. Have a care lest I come to use the flat of it.”
Fulk rose up and walked over towards the man in red, keeping his eyes on Guy the Stallion’s eyes, and holding his sword on his shoulder.
“Out—out, you dogs!”