“Mother of God,” said he, “what have we here?”
“A woman, lording,” and she laughed a little, and then said again, more softly: “A woman.”
Aymery scanned her by the light of the torches, and it seemed to him that he had seen her face before. Her hair was dark as night, her skin the colour of a white rose, and she looked at him with eyes that seemed full of an amused yet watchful glitter.
For the moment Aymery thought of letting her go free, but the lady herself appeared to have no such ambition.
“I am in your hands, messire,” she said. “Keep me from the mud and the mob, and I will thank you.”
Aymery asked her name, being puzzled to know what to do with such a prisoner.
“My name?” and she laughed, and gave him a look that was meant to challenge a possible homage. “I dropped my name with my shield. Nor would you know it if I told it you.”
Aymery was asking himself what had best be done with this lady in man’s guise. To many men the answer would have been gallant and none too difficult. But Aymery coveted neither the responsibility nor the possible romance. Nor was he sorry when a happy chance intervened between him and the dilemma.
A number of knights came riding out of Southwark with Simon the Younger on his white horse at their head. And Simon who was an adventurous and hot headed gentleman with the eyes of a hawk when a woman was concerned, caught sight of Aymery and his prisoner, and swooped down instantly towards the lure.
“Hallo, my friend, who are you, and what have you here?”