Fulk was as calm as a frosty morning, his face looking serenely through all the whirl and pother of the swashbuckler’s blows. Roger Ferrers had been a great man at his weapons, and Fulk had swung a sword with Roger before he was four feet high. He let this swaggerer slash as he pleased, guarding himself and smiling into the Stallion’s eyes. “Strike, my friend, strike harder. You would do better with a bulrush.” Of a sudden his whole front changed. His chin rose higher, his lips and nostrils grew thin, and his eyes ceased smiling. Blows leapt at Guy like flames, licking him on every side and driving him back. The fight ended with his stumbling and shooting forward under Fulk’s sword, where he lay like a red beetle, very flat and still. The men of the door set up a howl of rage, for this tawdry and swaggering bird had made them believe in his crowing. They came pushing in, bunched together, scythe-blades and bills poking forward, lusting to smite, yet afraid of that uncompromising sword. Fulk stood with head thrown back, nostrils dilated, eyes mocking them with a flare of scorn. “Come, my lords and nobles, come nearer.” His fierce pride of birth, and his lean valour, awed them, though they cursed him and handled their weapons. “Fetch in the chopping-block, Harry.” “We’ll have his head off before cock-crow.” “Knock the whelp’s legs from under him with a pole.” They edged forward in a half circle, encouraging each other, and pointing to the swashbuckler who still lay flat on his face. And since all their eyes were towards Fulk of the Forest, they did not see Isoult of the Rose and Father Merlin standing in the doorway. It was Isoult’s voice that whipped the boors back. They parted and let her through, since she carried a knife, and stabbed at those who faltered. “Out, fools, out of the way.” Her voice might have been the sound of the Last Trump so far as Guy the Stallion was concerned, for he picked himself up, drew a sleeve across his face, and attempted an unsteady swagger. A crack in his rusty basinet showed where Fulk’s sword had bitten him. “Isoult, the cub is mine for the taking. He tricked me the once——” He flourished his sword towards Fulk, but Isoult’s eyes swept him aside. “Fool, go and wash the blood out of your boasting beard.” “S’death! I’ll set hell loose!” “Poor jay, you pecked at a falcon and got smitten. Stand away. I have no patience to listen to your frothing.” He slunk aside with furious red eyes, while Father Merlin waited in the background, showing his teeth and smoothing his chin. Isoult passed on towards Fulk, and these two stood confronting each other, the man with the point of his sword resting on the floor and his hands crossed on the pommel. No one but Fulk saw Isoult’s face, or the cry of “Hail, fellow falcon!” in her eyes. “Master Fulk Ferrers, I charge you, surrender that sword of yours.” He stared at her mistrustfully, head up, lips set. “Dame Isoult, I thought you were at Lewes.”