Fulk took the measure of the man who stalked insolently into the hall. It was the figure of a strapping bully, swaggering, tawdry, dramatic, clad in a scarlet cote-hardie covered with tarnished embroidery, hauberk, and basinet very rusty, and the blade of his sword, which he carried naked upon his shoulder, jagged like a saw. The red points of his forked beard stuck out like tusks, for he had a habit of throwing his head well back, and looking at people with an aggressive and staring insolence. Fulk scanned him from head to heel; his nostrils dilating a little, his mouth twitching with scorn. He bided there silently like a hound of the blood waiting to hear a strange cur snarl at him. Guy the Stallion gave him a swaggering salute with his sword. “Master Fulk Ferrers, greeting. I have twenty men at my back, and none of us love John of Gaunt and his creatures. I charge you to throw down that sword of yours, and stand up like a good lad.” Fulk’s stare was like the thrust of a spear. The doorway was full of hairy faces, of brown smocks and fists that held flails, scythe-blades on poles, clubs, bows, bill-hooks—a boor’s armoury. Fulk showed them an ironical courtesy, a storm sign in a young man of his temper. “Sir Hacksword, I am much beholden to you. That blade of yours looks as though it had seen wonderful adventures. Step in, knights and gentles all; the honour is mine to be visited by so fair a company.” His scorn struck them like a north wind, and made the swashbuckler’s forked beard thrust itself out more fiercely. “This sword was hammering the French when you were a mere toddler. Have a care lest I come to use the flat of it.” Fulk rose up and walked over towards the man in red, keeping his eyes on Guy the Stallion’s eyes, and holding his sword on his shoulder. “Out—out, you dogs!” He pointed with his sword towards the crowd of boors in the doorway. “Out!” “By cock, you young ruffler, I can take blows better than words.” He had his blow, a flat buffet across the face given slantwise with a lightning sweep of the sword-blade. He staggered, jerking up his arms, his nostrils reddening with blood. There was a crowding in of the smocked figures through the doorway, but Guy the Stallion bellowed them back. “All hell shall stir for this! Let no man meddle.” He sprang towards Fulk with huge and flamboyant sweeps of the sword. “Guard, you adder; I’ll teach you sword-play.” And so the fight began. Fulk had drawn back into a corner of the hall where he could hold the ground before him without being taken on the flanks. Guy the Stallion came at him with a swaggering rage, and for the moment the boors held back to watch the tussle, such a smiting together of swords not being seen on every day of the week.