Now news had come into the town that the firebrands on either side were flaming in arms. Roger Mortimer had ravaged De Montfort’s estates on the Welsh marches. There had been skirmishes in the west country. The Earl of Derby had hoisted his banner against the King. Henry himself had issued writs calling his followers to arms on the last day of March. The peacemaking of Louis of France seemed likely to bring on a yet bitterer war. Fulcon shook his head over it, and grumbled. “The King pipes the tune, and poor John pays. There will be bloody work again. God give Earl Simon a heavy hand.” And then, as is always the case, he discovered compensations. “Hervé will have his chance,” he said; “how can a soldier show himself without a battle!” Two days passed, and news came suddenly that Simon the Younger was near at hand, and likely to pass through Reigate on the way. The news set Fulcon all agog, for Hervé followed the Earl of Gloucester’s banner, and some said the earl was with young Simon, and Fulcon was as eager as any woman to see his lad. He went out into the town, leaving Denise and Ban to look to the loaves in the shop. And while Fulcon was away De Montfort’s son marched into Reigate with a following of knights and men-at-arms. Denise saw the people running to and fro like ants in a nest that have been stirred up with a stick. A crowd began to gather, an anxious, whispering, restless crowd, uneasy as a wood under the first puffs of a threatening storm. For armed men in a town were too often the devil’s retainers, were they friends or foes. The sound of shouting came from one of the gates, with the blare of trumpets. “Simon is here!” The news spread, and men who had wives and daughters, pushed them within doors, bidding them look through cracks in the shutters if they must look at all. A knight came riding by, carrying a black banner with a white cross thereon. A few stray dogs ran hither and thither, to be hooted, and pelted by the boys in the crowd. Then suddenly, with the thunder of hoofs along the street, came the clangour of young Simon’s company, their spears set close together like black masts in a haven. Denise stood at the door of Fulcon’s shop, with Ban bristling and snarling beside her. A splendid knight on a white horse rode in the van. His helmet was off, and he laughed, and looked about him as he rode with a certain good-humoured vanity. Beside him, mounted on a black mare, Denise saw a woman in silks of blue and green, and a cloak of sables over her shoulders. The way was narrow, and the crowd greatest just by the baker’s shop. Simon the Younger reined in his horse, holding his spear at arms length as a sign to those behind him to halt. “Room, good people,” he said, gracious and debonair. “We are not here to trample on honest men’s toes.”