Aymery showed his shield, but the Earl’s son recognised his face.
“Sir Aymery, out of Sussex! And what is this treasure, messire, that we have taken?”
At the sound of Aymery’s name the woman’s eyes had darted a look at him, like the momentary gleam of a knife hidden under a cloak. Then she moved nearer to young De Montfort, and was soon speaking on her own behalf.
He bowed gallantly to her when she had done.
“Since you offer us no name, madam,” he said. “Let us call you Isoult of the Black Hair. I am Simon, the earl’s son. Also, I am your servant, unless our friend here stands between us.”
Aymery renounced all prestige, not having Simon’s capacity for instant infatuations.
“It is no concern of mine, sire,” he said, with a bluntness that was hardly courteous to the lady.
A laugh hailed this frankness. De Montfort’s son was looking at Etoile.
“Will it please you to command my courtesy?” he asked.
Etoile smiled at him. He took her bridle, and they went riding together over London Bridge into London City. Nor did Simon guess that this was the first ride along a tortuous road that would lead him to bring death upon the great earl, his father.