‘Hugh was of Earl Godwin’s blood, and all Sussex knew it, though no Saxon dared call him kingly in a Norman’s hearing. There can be but one King. ‘“It serves,” said Hugh. “But the day will be long and hot. Better rest here. We go forward now.” ‘“No, I will keep with thee, my kinsman,” he answered like a child. He was indeed childish through great age. ‘The line had not moved a bowshot when De Aquila’s great horn blew for a halt, and soon young Fulke--our false Fulke’s son--yes, the imp that lit the straw in Pevensey Castle [See ‘Old Men at Pevensey’ in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.]--came thundering up a woodway. ‘“Uncle,” said he (though he was a man grown, he called me Uncle), “those young Norman fools who shot at you this morn are saying that your beaters cried treason against the King. It has come to Harry’s long ears, and he bids you give account of it. There are heavy fines in his eye, but I am with you to the hilt, Uncle!” ‘When the boy had fled back, Hugh said to me: “It was Rahere’s witless man that cried, ‘’Ware Red William’s arrow!’ I heard him, and so did the Clerk of Netherfield.” ‘“Then Rahere must answer to the King for his man,” said I. “Keep him by you till I send,” and I hastened down. ‘The King was with De Aquila in the Grand Stand above Welansford down in the valley yonder. His Court--knights and dames--lay glittering on the edge of the glade. I made my homage, and Henry took it coldly. ‘“How came your beaters to shout threats against me?” said he. ‘“The tale has grown,” I answered. “One old witless man cried out, ‘’Ware Red William’s arrow,’ when the young knights shot at our line. We had two beaters hit.” ‘“I will do justice on that man,” he answered. “Who is his master?” ‘“He’s Rahere’s man,” said I. ‘“Rahere’s?” said Henry. “Has my fool a fool?” ‘I heard the bells jingle at the back of the stand, and a red leg waved over it; then a black one. So, very slowly, Rahere the King’s jester straddled the edge of the planks, and looked down on us, rubbing his chin. Loose-knit, with cropped hair, and a sad priest’s face, under his cockscomb cap, that he could twist like a strip of wet leather. His eyes were hollow-set. ‘“Nay, nay, Brother,” said he. “If I suffer you to keep your fool, you must e’en suffer me to keep mine.” ‘This he delivered slowly into the King’s angry face! My faith, a King’s jester must be bolder than lions!