Early in December Henry had attempted to win his way into Dover. The attempt had failed miserably; and the news was that he and his men were still lingering on the coast. No one thought of him as within ten leagues of London; the traitors in the city were alone wise as to his plans. Earl Simon remained in Southwark, debating the future with the barons who were with him, and with the Londoners who would hear of nothing but that the King should swallow the Great Charter, and that the Provisions of Oxford should hold. They had not forgotten Richard of Cornwall’s corn ships, and the way Henry had attempted to play the Jew at the expense of the starving poor. It so happened that Aymery was in the saddle one December evening as the darkness came down over the land like a rolling fog. Rain had begun to fall, a fine drizzle that made the fading horizon in the west a dim grey streak. Infinite mournfulness breathed in the gust of a wet winter wind. Tired horses plodded past Aymery as he sat motionless by the roadside, the hood of his cloak turned over his helmet. A party had been out to bring in forage, and Aymery had had the handling of the escort, a few archers and men-at-arms. The last tired horse had gone splashing by, and the creaking of the saddles and the breathing of the beasts were dropping into the darkness before Aymery turned to follow his men. He was about to push his horse to a trot when he heard the sound of a man running along the wet, wind-swept road. Aymery drew up across the road, and saw a figure come out of the darkness, head down, hands paddling the air. The man seemed to see neither horse nor rider till he was almost into them. He stumbled, recovered himself, and drew back out of the possible reach of a possible sword. “Montfort—Montfort?” Aymery reassured him, and he staggered forward and leant against Aymery’s horse, panting out his news, for he had run two miles or more. “Lording, there is an army on the march down yonder. I was carrying faggots from a wood, when I saw them riding out of the dusk. Their vanguard halted under the wood, and I hid myself, and listened, and then crept away and ran like a rabbit.” He panted, pressing his ribs with his two hands, as though his heart was gorged with blood. Aymery bent down, and looked into the hind’s mud-stained face. “Quick, good lad——” “It was the van of the King’s host, lording, they are riding on Southwark out of the night.” “How near are they?” “The wood is a mile beyond the cross where the roads branch. They were resting their horses, the beasts had been hard ridden, and their bellies were all mud.” Aymery straightened in the saddle, and sat motionless. The night gave no sound for the moment save the soughing of the wind through some poplars that grew near. Half a furlong away the darkness thickened into a black curtain, hiding the world, tantalising those who watched with the wraiths of a thousand chances.