It was no season for roses, but a feather was also the cognisance of Henry VI., and every one’s barret-cap mounted a feather, generally borrowed from the goodwife’s poultry yard at home, but sometimes picked up on the moors, and showing the barred black and brown patterns of the hawk’s or the owl’s plumage. It was a heron’s feather that Hal assumed, on the counsel of Sir Giles, who told him it was an old badge of the Cliffords, and it became well his bright dark hair and brown face. On they went, a new and wonderful march to Hal, who had only looked with infant eyes on anything beyond the fells, and had very rarely been into a little moorland church, or seen enough people together for a market day in Penrith. Sir Giles directed their course along the sides of the hills till he should gain further intelligence, and know how they would be received. For the most part the people were well inclined to King Henry, though unwilling to stir on his behalf in fear of Edward’s cruelty. However, it was as they had come down from the hills intending to obtain fresh provisions at one of the villages, and Hal was beginning to recognise the moors he had known in earlier childhood, that they perceived a party on the old Roman road before them, which the outlaws’ keen eyes at once discovered to be somewhat of their own imputed trade. There seemed to be a waggon upset, persons bound, and a buzz of men, like wasps around a honeycomb preying on it. Something like women’s veiled forms could be seen. ‘Ha! Mere robbery. This must not be. Upon them! Form! Charge!’ were the brief commands of the leader, and the compact body ran at a rapid but a regulated pace down the little slope that gave them an advantage of ground with some concealment by a brake of gorse. ‘Halt! Pikes forward!’ was the next order. The little band were already close upon the robbers, in whom they began to recognise some of those whom Sir Giles had dismissed as mere ruffians unequipped a few days before. It was with a yell of indignation that the troop fell on them, Sir Giles with a sharp blow severing the bridle of a horse that a man was leading, but there was a cry back, ‘We are for King Harry! These be Yorkists!’ ‘Nay! nay!’ came back the voices of the overthrown. ‘Help! help! for King Harry and Queen Margaret! These be rank thieves who have set on us! Holy women are here!’ These exclamations came broken and in utter confusion, mingled with cries for mercy and asseverations on the part of the thieves, and fierce shouts from Sir Giles’s men. All was hubbub, barking dogs, shouting men, and Hal scarcely knew anything till he was aware of two or three shrouded nuns, as it seemed, standing by their ponies, of merchantmen or carters trying to quiet and harness frightened mules, of waggons overturned, of a general confusion over which arose Lord Musgrave’s powerful authoritative voice. ‘Kit of Clumber! Why should I not hang you for thieving on yonder tree, with your fellow thieves?’