"Pertolepe's wolves!" he panted, "two of them have I--slain--within the last mile," and grinning, he patted the haft of his axe.
"What news, Walkyn?"
"Death!" panted Walkyn, "there be five dead men a-swing from the bartizan tower above Garthlaxton Keep, and one that dieth under the torture e'en now, for I heard grievous outcry, and all by reason of thy escape, lord."
"Come you then from Garthlaxton?" quoth Beltane, frowning.
"Aye, lord. For, see you, 'twas market day, so went I to one I know that is a swineherd, a trusty fellow that bringeth hogs each week unto Garthlaxton. So did we change habits and went to Garthlaxton together, driving the hogs before us. Thereafter, while he was away chaffering, I sat me down in the outer bailey tending my beasts, yet with eyes and ears wide and with my hand upon mine axe 'neath my cloak lest haply I might chance within striking distance of Red Pertolepe. And, sitting thus, I heard tell that he had marched out with all his array to join Black Ivo's banner. Whereupon was I mightily cast down. But it chanced the wind lifted my cloak, and one of the warders, spying mine axe, must think to recognise me and gave the hue and cry; whereat I, incontinent, fled ere they could drop the portcullis--and divers rogues after me. Aha! then did I lead them a right merry dance by moor and moss, by briar and bog, and contrived to slay of them five in all. But as to Pertolepe, a malison on him! he is not yet to die, meseemeth. But, some day--aye, some day!" So saying he kissed the great axe and setting it by came to the table and fell to eating mightily while Giles sat hard by busied with certain arrows, yet betwixt whiles watching Beltane who, crossing to the bed of fern, laid him down thereon and closed his eyes. But of a sudden he raised his head, hearkening to a whistle, soft and melodious, near at hand.
"Aha!" exclaimed Giles, setting aside his arrows, "yonder should be Roger--a hungry Roger and therefore surly, and a surly Roger is rare sport to lighten a dull hour. Heaven send our Roger be surly!" So saying, the archer went forth and presently came hasting back with Roger at his heels scowling and in woeful plight. Torn and stained and besprent with mud, his rawhide knee-boots sodden and oozing water, he stood glowering at Giles beneath the bloody clout that swathed his head, his brawny fist upon his dagger.
"No food left, say ye, Giles, no food, and I a-famishing? You and Walkyn drunk up all the wine betwixt ye, and I a-perish--ha--so now will I let it out again--" and out flashed his dagger.