On one side stretched the open moor rising into the purple hills, just touched with snow. On the other was the wooded valley of the Derwent, growing wider ever before it debouched amid rocks into the sea. The goodwife at once discovered that there had been recent habitation, and asked what had become of the former dwellers there. ‘The woman fretted for company,’ said Simon, ‘and vowed she was in fear of the Scots, so I even let her have her way and go down to the town.’ The town in north country parlance only meant a small village, and Hob asked where it lay. It was near the junction of the two streams, where Simon lived himself in a slightly fortified farmhouse, just high up enough to be fairly safe from flood tides. He did not advise his newly arrived tenants to be much seen at this place, where there were people who might talk. They were almost able to provide for their daily needs themselves, excepting for meal and for ale, and he would himself see to this being supplied from a more distant farm on the coast, which Hob and Piers might visit from time to time with the pony. Goodwife Dolly inquired whether they might safely go to church, from which she had been debarred all the time they had been on the move. ‘So ill for both us and the lad,’ she said. Simon looked doubtful. ‘If thou canst not save thy soul without,’ he said, ‘thou mightst go on some feast day, when there is such a concourse of folk that thou mightst not be noticed, and come away at once without halting for idle clavers, as they call them here.’ ‘That’s what the women folk are keen for with their church-going,’ said Hob with a grin. ‘Now, husband, thou knowst,’ said Dolly, injured, though she was more than aware he spoke with intent to tease her. ‘Have I not lived all this while with none to speak to save thee and the blessed lads, and never murmured.’ ‘Though thy tongue be sore for want of speech!’ laughed Hob, ‘thou beest a good wife, Dolly, and maybe thy faithfulness will tell as much in the saving of thy soul as going to church.’ ‘Nay, but,’ said Hal with eagerness, ‘is there not a priest?’ ‘The priest comes of a White Rose house--I trust not him. Ay, goodwife, beware of showing thyself to him. I give him my dues, that he may have no occasion against me or Sir Lancelot, but I would not have him pry into knowledge that concerns him not.’ ‘Did not Sir Lancelot say somewhat of a scholarly hermit who might learn me in what I ought to know?’ asked the boy. ‘Never you fear, sir! Here are Hob Halstead and I, able to train any young noble in what behoves him most to know.’ ‘Yea, in arms and sports. They must be learnt I know, but a noble needs booklore too,’ said the boy. ‘Cannot this same hermit help me? Sir Lancelot--’ Simon Bunce interrupted sharply. ‘Sir Lancelot knows nought of the hermit! He is--he is--a holy man.’ ‘A priest,’ broke in Dolly, ‘a priest!’