Here was a pretty business. The girl’s sleeve was already red and soaked, and the slit cloth showed a long red streak in the plump white of her flesh. Blood was welling up, and dripping fast to the grass at her feet. Despite the smart of her wounds and her temper, she saw it would be mere folly to chase Morgan. Following instinct, she ran for home, holding her right hand pressed over the gash in her shoulder.
In the main avenue who should she meet but Gorlois, carried in a litter, and looking out lazily from behind half-drawn curtains. His quick eyes caught sight of Igraine as she passed. He saw the blood and the girl’s white face, and he was out of the litter like a stag from cover, and at her side, with spirited concern. Igraine was white and half dazed, her green gown soaked and stained. Her eyes trembled up at Gorlois as she showed him her gashed arm, with a smile and a little whimper that made him storm.
“Who did this?”
He had stripped his cloak off, and was tearing it into strips, while his jaw stiffened.
“An old foe of mine.”
“Describe him.”
“A woman, my lord.”
“The damned vixen. Her dress?”
“Blue tunic, and gown of purple.”
Gorlois turned to certain servants who stood round gaping at the girl in her blood-stained dress, and their lord tearing his cloak into bandages with characteristic furor.