But Waleran, Lord of Herstmonceux, the father of our Ralph, espoused the popular side warmly, as did all the English men of Saxon race—the “merrie men” of the woods, and the like. But the great Earl de Warrenne of Lewes was a fierce royalist. So was the Lord of Pevensey. Already the woods were full of strife. Whensoever a party met a party of opposite principles, there was instant bloodshed. The barons’ men from Herstmonceux pillaged the lands of Walderne or Pevensey. The burghers of Hailsham declared for the earl, as did most burghers throughout the land; and Lewes, Pevensey, and Walderne threatened to unite, harry their lands, and burn their town. The monks of Battle preached for the king, as did those of Wilmington and Michelham. The Franciscans everywhere used all their powers for the barons, for was not Simon de Montfort one of them in heart in their reforms? So all was strife and confusion—the first big drops of rain before the thunderstorm. Drogo was at the height of his ambition. He had added Walderne to his patrimony of Harengod. He had humbled the neighbouring franklins, who refused to pay him blackmail. He had filled his castle with free lances, whose very presence forced him to a life of brigandage, for they must be paid, and work must be found them, or—he could not hold them in hand. The vassals who cultivated the land around enjoyed security of life with more or less suffering from his tyranny; but the independent franklin, the headmen of the villages, the burgesses of the towns (outside their walls), the outlaws of the woods, when he could get at them all, these were his natural sport and prey. He had a squire after his own heart, named Raoul of Blois, who had come to England in the train of one of the king’s foreign favourites, and escaped the general sentence of expulsion passed at Oxford in 1258. One eventide—the work of the day was over, and Drogo and this squire were taking counsel in the chamber of the former; once the boudoir of Lady Sybil in better days. “Raoul,” said his master, “have you heard aught yet of the Lady Alicia of Possingworth?” “Yes, my lord, but not good news.” “Tell them without more grimace.” “She has placed herself under the protection of the Earl of Leicester.” Drogo swore a deep oath. “We were too weak, my lord, to interrupt the party, and we did not know in time what they were about. But one thing I heard the demoiselle said, which you should hear, although it may not be pleasant.” “Well!” “Although my first love be dead, I will never marry a man who poisoned his aunt.” “They have to prove it—let them.” “My lord, the old hag who sold you the phial, as she says, yet lives, and I fear prates.” “She shall do so no longer. Get a party of half a dozen of your tenderest lambs ready for secret service. We will start two hours before dawn, when all the world is fast asleep. See that you are all ready and call me.”