“Such men are growing scarce, my lord, in these parts. A few green youngsters perhaps, and an old badger or two deep down in their earths.” “Like old Jack Falconer, I shall draw that badger some day.” Trumpets sounded as they crossed the bridge over the dry moat, for my Lord of Troy had a love of ceremony and spacious, opulent magnificence. The guards at the gate-house presented their pikes. In the main court grooms and servants came hurrying in my lord’s livery of silver and green. A page stood uncovered beside Roger Bland’s horse, with a cup of wine ready on a silver salver. My lord waved him aside. “Bring two cups, child, to my closet, and let it be known that I am not to be troubled. Now, Master Vance.” They entered by a little door in an angle of the courtyard, and a staircase led them to the great solar above and at the end of the hall. From the solar a passage cut in the thickness of the wall linked up my lord’s state chamber with his closet in one of the towers. It was a richly garnished room, its hangings of cloth of gold, its floor covered with skins and velvets. There were books on the table. The open door of a great oak armoire showed ivory chessmen set ready on a board. My lord chose one of the window-seats. He liked a stately perch, a noble view, and his back to the light. The subtler shades did not matter to Noble Vance; he let fate hang him where it pleased, like a joint of meat in a butcher’s shop. “It is wondrous hot for May, sir.” “The blood is hot in the spring, Vance. Here comes the wine.” The page served them, and had his orders. “Stay in the gallery, Walter, and see that we are not disturbed.” The Forest Warden waited for my lord to raise his cup. “Your good esteem, sir.” “I think you hold it, Vance. Do things ever happen in the Forest?” “But little, sir. You have left no man fit to quarrel with you. But I have come upon a little business in Gawdy Town.” “Such places breed fleas—and adventures. What is it, Vance?” “Young Gilbert Dale and the girl are there.” “What—those cubs?” “They came in the ship Rose. The lad is a grown man, and the girl a fine, black-browed wench. Pimp Odgers spied them out, though they played the part of strollers.” “You are sure?” “I have Odgers here, and another fellow who knew the Dales, and could swear to the son.” Roger Bland turned in his seat and looked out over the Forest. It was as noble a view as a man could desire, a world of green valleys and distant hills blue on the horizon. The lord of Troy Castle smiled as he sat there high up in the tower, a sly, cynical smile of self-congratulation. The Forest lay at his feet; he was its master. Even the thought of the cruel strength he had shown in taming it pleased him, for, like many men who lack brute physical courage, he was cleverly and shrewdly cruel. “How many years, Vance, is it since that day when we smoked the Dales out of Woodmere?” “Seven, this June, sir.”