“Lord,” she said, “I am still obstinate. I have lived among you all.”
“Denise, I also am obstinate.”
“I would not have you otherwise. And yet, how can I shirk the truth that I shall be deserting you all the moment trouble comes?”
He smiled at her, and shook his head.
“Should we be the happier if you fell into the hands of Peter of Savoy? No. That is unthinkable! I would rather see you—dead like Waleran’s boy—before they carried you into Pevensey! Good God, you, to be touched by such hands!”
Denise understood all that was in his heart. She crossed herself as though against the evil things of the world.
“Lord,” she said, “let there be this promise between us. If Goldspur is threatened, then—I will do what you desire. When the people take to the woods, I shall feel less of a coward. They shall not say that I fled from a shadow.”
And thus it was agreed between them, Aymery riding back through the woods towards Goldspur, the face of Denise more wonderful to him than it had ever seemed before. Aymery had come by the truth that morning, and the world had a mystery—the mystery of the tenderness of spring.
Close by Goldspur village, on the edge of the manor ploughlands, he met Grimbald, who had come in search of him. The priest’s face had the look of a stormy and ominous sky. He took Aymery’s bridle, and turned back with him towards the village.
“Waleran has gone towards Pevensey,” he said. “We must be ready for a whirlwind when such storm-cocks are on the wing.”