Fulk’s thoughts were back in that Sussex forest, turning towards that cold woman, his mother, and the silent man who had reared him as a son. Ever since he had caught Isoult by moonlight, hunting the duke’s deer, the world had been turned topsy-turvy, and the old life had vanished. He knew that he could never go back and guard deer in a Sussex forest. Isoult had come sailing like a splendid falcon out of the blue, challenging him to soar with her in quest of great adventures. “Knollys, the King will keep faith?” “We shall see to it, my son.” “I must have good men, a good ship, and good money. My pride has had a bold flight. It will not come back to perch so easily.” “Would you change with your half-brother?” “Yes—and no. But I keep faith, and I shall not let it be forgotten.” Knollys laughed. “No, in faith, you would be dangerous—to forget. We have pledged our faith to you. No prince of the blood shall set out more royally. Even the good Walworth is ready to pay you for his knighthood! A man may send in a big bill for saving a kingdom. I will ride down hither before many days are passed, and bring you news.” They rode through but one village, and saw nothing but women, old men, and children. Sullen faces looked at them from behind half-closed doors. The men who had slunk home from London did not show themselves, mistrusting anything that rode upon a horse. The fields were still deserted, though here and there they saw a man swinging a scythe. The people were cowed, afraid of their own violence, profoundly discouraged by the deaths of their leaders. The lords and the lawyers would be out for vengeance, and the mob that had threatened a kingdom had scattered in a panic, and was ready to cringe. The country grew wilder, rolling woods meeting heather-covered hills that were purpling against the blue of the summer sky. It was an empty landscape where deer might range and the hawk hover without sighting such a thing as man. At Beggars Thorn they reined in, for here Knollys and his men were to turn back. “There is no more kick in Master Adam. You will not be troubled. Cavendish will see you housed.” He slung Fulk a fat wallet. “Wine and dainties, my son. God speed you.” He drew close and these two embraced, for comrade’s love—man’s love—had sprung up between them. “Grace to you, Master Bertrand.” He looked at Isoult, and smiled. “The knave of a boy! How could you cock your chin at me. Farewell, farewell!” He left them the guide and turned back with his men for London town. It was evening—a still, June evening—when they came towards the Black Mere. Heathlands sloped to a deep valley, where woods of birch and of beech threw light and heavy shadows. The track followed a long, winding strip of grassland knee deep with grass and flowers, and into it opened the woodland ways, tunnels of mystery.