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Grimbald told her the news.

“It is Waleran de Monceaux’s lad,” he said. “Come and see, Sanctissima, whether God will be merciful.”

She bent forward and looked into Grimbald’s face.

“There is war with us—then?”

Grimbald spread his arms.

“Peter of Savoy sent out his free-lances from Pevensey. They were too strong for us. The lad was shot through the body when they drove us into the woods.”

“I saw a fire—about dusk.”

“Waleran’s hall—and outhouses! That was the end of it.”

He stood aside, and Denise went down the path, her bare feet making no sound upon the stones. Aymery, lord of the manor of Goldspur, knelt in the grass beside the litter holding the lad’s cold hands. Waleran still stood aloof, his face hidden under his hood. No one spoke to him. They left him alone, knowing his mood, and the manner of man that he was.

Denise went on her knees beside the litter, her two hands putting back the masses of her hair. Aymery lifted the shield from the lad’s face. The sleeve of his hauberk brushed against Denise’s cloak. She glanced round at him, and their eyes smiled faintly at one another.