Voices seemed to rise everywhere in the darkness. A waggon went creaking by, with the cracking of a whip, and the oaths of the driver. Mallets began to ring on the polls of stout, ash pegs and Isoult pricked up her ears at the sound.
“They are pitching a tent yonder!”
Marpasse nodded as she munched her bread.
“Some of the lords must be near,” Isoult ran on, “we may be in good company. The saints bring us luck.”
Her eyes met Denise’s, and there was a startled something in Denise’s glance that made Isoult flinch, and then burst into spiteful laughter. Isoult had the wine flask in her hand, and she lifted it, and drank deep.
“Blood of mine, have we an unshorn lamb here?”
She stared at Denise impudently as though challenging her. Denise looked away.
Isoult’s face sharpened, the face of a little vixen ever ready to snap and bite.
“Lord, how proud we are! Coarse sluts, that is what we are, Marpasse.”
The big woman held up a brown hand.