“Am I to argue with a clod of clay? The woman is marked for great honour, and must be taken. Will you spoil her fortune?”
The man fingered the reins, looking hard at Gorlois with his stupidly honest face. He guessed he was some great lord, by his harness and his following. It was not for him to gainsay such a gentleman, especially when he flourished a naked sword.
“I would do my best for the good nun, lording,” he said.
“Then speak out.”
“She promised to pray for my woman.”
Gorlois gave a laugh, and scoffed at the notion.
“Let prayers be,” he said; “tell me where she went.”
The man told Gorlois of the hermitage in the dale where Igraine had gone for a night’s lodging. He described how the path could be found, a mile or more nearer Winchester. Gorlois threw a gold piece into the cart, and let the man drive on. Then he sat still on his black horse with his sword over his shoulder, and looked into the wood with dark, glooming eyes. For a minute he sat like a statue, staring on nothing in keen thought. His men watched him, looking for some swift swoop from such a pinnacle of pondering; they knew his temper. His sword shot back into its scabbard, and he was keen as a wolf.
“Galleas of Camelford.”