"She was captive to Sir Pertolepe, by him taken in a raid, and he would have had her to his will: yet, by aid of my lord's jester, she escaped and fled hither. But Sir Pertolepe's foresters pursued and took her and--so is she dead: may God requite them!"
"Amen!" quoth Giles o' the Bow, hoarse-voiced, "so do they all lie dead within the green!"
"Save one!" said Roger.
"But he sore wounded!" quoth Walkyn.
"How!" cried the friar aghast, "have ye indeed slain Sir Pertolepe's foresters?"
"Nineteen!" nodded Roger, grimly.
"Alas!" cried the friar, "may God save the poor folk hereabouts, for now will Sir Pertolepe wreak vengeance dire upon them."
"Then," said Beltane, "then must I have word with Sir Pertolepe."
Now when he said this, Black Roger stared agape and even the archer's tongue failed him for once; but Walkyn smiled and gripped his axe.
"Art mad, tall brother!" cried Giles at length, "Sir Pertolepe would hang thee out of hand, or throw thee to his dogs!"
"Lord," said Roger, "Sir Pertolepe hath ten score men-at-arms in Garthlaxton, beside bowmen and foresters."
"There should be good work for mine axe!" smiled Walkyn.
"None the less must I speak with him," said Beltane, and turned him to the door.
"Then will I die with thee, lord," growled Roger.
"So will I come and watch thee die--hangman, and loose a shaft or two on mine own account!"
But now, of a sudden, Walkyn raised a warning hand.
"Hark!" said he: and, in a while, as they listened, upon the stillness came a rustle of leaves and thereafter a creeping step drawing slowly nearer: then swift and soft-treading, Walkyn stole out into the shadows.
Very soon he returned, leading a woman, pale and haggard, who clasped a babe within her threadbare cloak; her eyes were red and sore with much weeping and upon the threshold she paused as one in sudden fear, but espying the friar, she uttered a cry: "O Father Martin--good father--pray, pray for the soul of him who is father to my child, but who at dawn must die with many others upon my lord Duke's great gallows!"
"Alas!" cried the friar, wringing his hands, "what news is this?"
"O good friar," sobbed the woman, "my lord's hand hath been so heavy upon us of late--so heavy: and there came messengers from Thrasfordham in Bourne bidding us thither with fair promises:--and my father, being head of our village, hearkened to them and we made ready to cross into Bourne. But my lord came upon us and burned our village of Shallowford and lashed my father with whips and thereafter hanged him, and took my man and many others and cast them into the great dungeon at Belsaye-- and with the dawn they must hang upon the Duke's great gallows."