Denise fell to, and helped Marpasse. The big woman had whipped out her knife, and slit the sacking of the bale she had dragged down over the tail board. The bale contained nothing more than rolls of white cloth. Marpasse spat on it, and swore, for other men and women were crowding up. “White bibs for the fools, curse them! May Simon’s corpse be a bloodier colour.” She seized Denise by the wrist, and dragged her off as though to hunt for richer spoil. But in the thick of the scramble she ran against the chest of a white horse that came out from behind one of the waggons. Marpasse saved herself by holding to Denise. The rider on the white horse broke into a shout of laughter. “Great, fat sheep, where are you running?” And Marpasse stood open-mouthed, for it was Isoult, Isoult in a man’s hauberk, and red surcoat, her black hair bundled up under a steel cap. “Black cat!” Isoult reached down, caught Marpasse by the cloak, drew her in, and kissed her. “You big brown devil, how I love the smell of you. And sister Denise, too, with all the fun of the fair.” She tossed her head and laughed, and shouted to a knight on horseback who was watching his men scrambling over a coffer full of plate. “Lording, come you here. I have found your red head for you. Though you will not be wanting her now, unless you would like a touch of my knife.” The knight turned in the saddle; he had taken off his great helmet, both Denise and Marpasse knew him at the first glance. “Gaillard!” Marpasse took Denise by the hand, and kept very close to Isoult’s white horse. CHAPTER XL Aymery had searched the hillsides that day for a blue surcoat shining with golden suns, but since Gaillard had charged among Prince Edward’s spears, he was miles away on the heels of the Londoners while the men of the White Cross were driving the King back in rout upon Lewes town. But Simon had not forgotten to look for the return of the Prince. He had gathered the pick of his knights and men-at-arms together, and when they brought him news of the plundering of his camp, he smiled and bided his time. Steady and motionless, a mass of steel half hidden by a rise in the ground, De Montfort’s cavalry waited in the evening light for the coming of the Prince. And a riotous and disordered troop it was that marched back towards Lewes after plundering the Barons’ camp. Edward and his lords seemed to have accepted their victory as assured, and never doubted but that the White Cross had been trodden into the dust. The scene that stretched before them, flooded by the evening sunlight, was deceptive in the extreme. De Warenne’s banner still flew from the castle, and that of the King from the bell tower of St. Pancras. There were scattered bodies of armed men moving over the slopes and about the town, and the dead strewing the field made no confession of victory or defeat.