The King’s host went winding through the green valleys that spring morning, marching Kentwards, where Earl Simon had taken the town of Rochester by assault, and pressed hard upon John de Warenne who held out in the castle. Horse and foot, archers and camp-followers, baggage-waggons, sumpter mules, and loose women, made up the stream of steel and colour. It was a rough, careless, confident march, for had not the first triumphs fallen to the King? Northampton had been taken, and Simon the Younger made prisoner, with Madame Etoile, his lady. Leicester and Nottingham had fallen, and Gifford’s seizure and destruction of Warwick was all that the Barons could claim on their side. The Mise had gilded Henry’s cause. Even the King of the Scots had sent aid to his Brother of England; a Balliol, a Bruce, and a Comyn were among his captains. John de Warenne should keep Earl Simon under Rochester’s walls, until the King should come and crush him, or drive him headlong over the sea. Henry, weak, persuadable, false, yet brilliant gentleman, might count himself strong that spring, with his Poitevins and his adventurers, and the rougher lords who preferred the licence of a weak King to the justice of Earl Simon. But the old lion was not driven to bay yet, much less cowed or beaten. De Montfort and his men were not asleep, nor over confident like the King’s party. Rochester might be many miles away, but Earl Simon had sent some of his most trusted men to watch the march of the King’s army, to judge its strength, and keep him warned as to all that passed. Waleran de Monceaux and Sir Aymery, woodlanders both of them, and wise in woodland law, lay that morning in a coppice close to the road and watched the King’s host go by. These Sussex men were men whom De Montfort trusted to the death. And they lay on their bellies in the thick of the dead bracken and the brambles, two wise dogs that saw and were not seen. Aymery was stretched at full length, his chin upon his two fists, his grey eyes at gaze, while Waleran, more restless and impetuous, carried on a mumbling monologue, and chewed grass with hungry jaws. They were counting the banners and the pennons, and marking as best they could the lords and knights who were with the King. Aymery lay still enough till Gaillard’s company came up, the Gascon riding bareheaded, his blue surcoat ablaze with its golden suns. Gaillard had found favour with the King, despite the happenings at Pevensey, and the anger of Peter of Savoy. Aymery knew Gaillard at the first glance, and set his teeth hard so that the muscles stood out about his jaw.