“St. Jude be blessed,” said Igraine at the end thereof. “I am glad, friend, of these tidings. As for the field, it looks to have been as bloody a one as ever I set eyes on.”
“Bloody enough,” quoth the man, giving his moustache a twirl; “too bloody for Gilomannius and dead Vortigern’s whelp.”
“What of Uther?”
“Scarce a scratch.”
“King Meliograunt?”
“Wounded, but drunk as the devil.”
“And Gorlois of Cornwall?”
The man laughed as at a jest.
“Bedded in an abbey,” said he, “with a split face; mere flesh, mere flesh, nothing deeper.”
Igraine thanked him with her helm adroop, and turning her horse, rode back towards the forest heavy of heart.