“You are fresh as yet. A man must wear such harness for a day to learn where it irks him. And so I am thinking that I will leave you to master it. There is work for me in the Forest.” He unhelmed himself, and his blue eyes looked at her questioningly. “What! You are venturing abroad?” “Yes; I shall take the horse, and your wallet full of food.” “Why must you go?” “Why, brother-in-arms, because we are not the only people on God’s earth who thirst to humble the Lord of Troy. We have friends in the Forest, and I must see them—take counsel, and plan what can be done. They were waiting for friends from France, and for poor Gilbert to give the word.” He answered her with sudden fire. “I carry your brother’s sword and wear his harness. It is my right to go.” She smiled at him with quiet eyes. “Dear man, that would not help us; you could not prove, as yet, that you are in the secret. Besides, all the wheels of it are in my head. I shall ride to Badger Hill and see John Falconer; he holds the reins in the Forest.” “But what of the Lord of Troy? Those dead men——” “What does he know as yet? He may send out riders, but I know the Forest better than any man that Roger Bland can count on. I shall not be caught in a snare. Moreover, Martin Valliant, I leave you to guard our stronghold and the precious gear in that cellar.” He was very loth to let her go alone, and bitterly against it, though he saw the wisdom of her argument. “My heart mislikes this venture.” “You run to meet a ghost,” she said. “I shall come to no harm, believe me.” She had her way, and he went to open the gate and lower the bridge while she put on a cloak and hood, and filled the wallet with food. She joined him on the causeway, where he stood scanning the woods mistrustfully. “I would to God I might go with you.” Her eyes looked into his. “Your heart goes with me. Bear with that harness, for your bones will ache not a little. And keep good guard.” He watched her cross the grassland toward the thicket where they had hidden the horse. Woodmere seemed to lack sunlight of a sudden, and his heart felt heavy when the trees hid her. Nor were Martin’s fears for her safety the mere idle qualms of a man in love. There was a saddling of horses at Troy Castle, and Fulk de Lisle, Roger Bland’s bravo, was shut up with him in my lord’s closet. Vance’s archer man, who had escaped Martin Valliant’s spade, had come in the night before, after losing his way in the Forest. His tale lost nothing in the telling. Mellis Dale had stabbed the Forest Warden with her poniard, and her paramour, the priest, had then beaten him, and John Bunce, to death. If my lord doubted it, let him send men to the Black Moor, and they would find the bodies.