So Fulk de Lisle had his orders. He was a gay, swashbuckling devil, very handsome, very debonair, a great man with his weapons. He stood before the Lord of Troy, leaning on his sword, his black hair curled under his flat red hat, his sword belt bossed with gold. He wore no armor save a cuirass, and light greaves; the blue sleeves of his doublet were puffed with crimson; his hose were striped red and blue. “Take thirty men; let them ride in three troops. Go yourself with one troop to the Black Moor; send Peter Rich with ten men to Badger Hill, and Swartz with the rest to Woodmere. I have sent messengers to Gawdy Town. I want the wench and the priest, both of them. And Vance’s body had better be brought in.” Fulk de Lisle turned to go. This was work that pleased him. The Forest had been dull and law-abiding for many months. “Wait!” Fulk faced about. “My lord?” “How do you think to know the girl when you see her?” “They say she is dark and vixenish, with eyes that bid a man stand back, a well-favored wench.” “Tush! Any pretty jade would do for you, man!” “Oldham, the archer, can recognize them both.” “He cannot be in three places at once, Sir Fulk de Lisle.” “He shall go with me. Swartz and Rich shall have orders to take and bring in any likely looking damsel.” “Yes, leave it at that. Waste no time. I am not patient when such tricks are played me.” So Fulk de Lisle and his men rode out from Troy Castle. They were lightly armed for fast riding, and ten of them shouldered cross-bows instead of spears. They kept together till they reached Red Heath, where Peter Rich and Swartz broke off with their two troops with guides for Woodmere and Badger Hill. Meanwhile Mellis was on her way to John Falconer’s house at Badger Hill. She sighted it about nine o’clock, a great, low, black-beamed, white-plastered place, walled around with gray stone, on the side of a sandy hill. Fir woods, dark as midnight, climbed skywards behind it; the farm lands lay in the valley to the south, but elsewhere the soil was poor, and grew nothing but gorse and heather. Mellis rode over the heath and up the hill to the house. A gawk of a boy, who was cleaning harness outside the stable doorway, stared at her with a face like sodden dough. She reined up in the courtyard and called to him. “Is Master Falconer here?” “Sure!” The boy never budged. “Tell Master Falconer that I am waiting.” “Who be—I?” “Run, you dolt, or I will get you a whipping.” He vanished down a slope that led under one wing of the house, and in half a minute John Falconer came out to her. He was like the hill he lived on—a gray badger of a man, grim, reticent, yet kindly. His short neck made the breadth of his shoulders more apparent. His legs were bowed and immensely strong. John Falconer was a piece of the Forest. His hair and beard were the color of beech mast, sanded with gray. “Do you know me?” His eyes brightened like a dog’s. “God’s death! Is it you?”