“Forty,” called Marpasse, “and a buxom age for a woman.”
Aymery let go of Denise’s hands. He stood with bowed head, looking into her face.
“Whatever God wills to-day,” he said, “remember the words that I have spoken.”
“Fifty,” trilled Marpasse. “I will see to it, lording. Up on your horse, my gallant. They are all in a drunken sleep yonder at Lewes, and there is not a man of them on the watch.”
She turned, and glanced sharply from Aymery to Denise. And the wet, passionate trouble in Denise’s eyes betrayed to Marpasse how things were tending. It was best to leave the tenderness to ripen of itself that day, for none but a woman understands a woman’s heart.
Aymery was in the saddle. His man’s face had grown tense and keen, the face of the strenuous fighter who puts softer things aside. And Marpasse loved him for that hawk’s look of his, and the way he spread his pinions to the wind.
“Simon is marching through the Newick woods,” he said; “if he can but come in time, he can seize and take the ground that pleases him.”
He looked down at Denise, and Marpasse understood the look.
“Ride, lording,” she said, “leave us to follow.”
Aymery drew his sword, and kissed the blade.