of the swaying bag, the yielding folds slithered away from him so vexingly, but he leaned a shoulder hard against it to hold it still, and the pin slid through.
A satisfying spurt of dark red followed as he drew the pin out again, and he looked down in hope, even in elation, to see the sudden red splash like blood in the whiteness of the snow beneath his feet. After the first gush the hole contracted again, but the weight of the wine kept it open, and trickled a thin drip along the way, and he thought it would do. It would not sink into the snow and be lost, for the frost was hard enough to seal it as it fell. And that way, dripping so meagrely, the load would last a long way. He hoped, long enough. But in case it should become too fine to be followed, from time to time he punched the skin, and found he could force out a brief jet, a tiny pool of wine to confirm what had gone before.
The dawn, grey and still and turning now to white mist that cut off all distances, was well upon them. A cold dawn, in which a few starved birds wheeled hopelessly. They had timed their return to the lair to be safe within before full light. If they were now near, Yves thought the depletion in the leaky wineskin might pass for a natural loss. They had been climbing for a long time. Lofty, bleak and inhospitable, the uplands of Titterstone Clee received them. Even in thick mist they knew where they were going, and knew when they drew near; they had begun to prod the pack-beasts and hurry the line along, scenting refuge, food and rest.
Yves took thought for his precious brooch, and managed to thread it inside the hem of his short tunic, out of sight. That freed his bound hands to grasp the rope that had begun to tighten uncomfortably round his neck when he tired, and haul himself along by it. It could not be far now. They had smelled their nest.
From barren, misty desert, without features within the short distance the eye could see, but always climbing, suddenly they were moving between close, low-growing trees, with rising rocks just discernible behind. Then it seemed that they emerged again upon an open summit, and there before them rose a high stockade, with a narrow gate in it, and over it showed a dark, squat, broad tower. There were men on watch, the gate opened as they approached.
Within, there were low, rough lean-to buildings all round the stockade, and men in plenty moving about between them. Below the tower a long hall extended. Yves heard cattle lowing and sheep calling plaintively. All was timber, all was new, raw and crude, but solid and formidably manned. No wonder they moved at ease in the night, insolently aware of their numbers, and of the strength of their secret fortress.
Before they entered the gate Yves had the wit to draw back the length of his leash, well away from the punctured wineskin, and blunder in droopingly, like one exhausted and cowed. Since sighting the stockade he had let the leaky skin alone, so that it dripped only a meager droplet by the time they halted in the snowy bailey. A leaky skin was no great marvel, and the pair to it, at least, was sound. And he had luck, for his first captor made haste to undo him and haul him away by the scruff of the neck, before anyone had noticed the thin red drip, and cursed at half a wineskin lost on the journey.
Yves went where he was dragged, scrambling meekly up the steps into the hall, and through the seething warmth and smokiness and stunning noise within. Torches burned along the walls, well primed out from the timber, a great fire blazed on a stone-laid hearth in the midst, and twenty voices at least plaited a lattice of noise though the haze, loud, merry and secure. Of furniture there was little, a few hewn benches, great tables on trestles of rough logs. Men teemed and many turned to stare and grin at the passage of this small prisoner.
At the far end of the hall there was a low dais, and here there were candles in tall sconces, hangings of tapestry, and carved chairs round a table spread with food and drinking horns and pitchers of ale, where three men sat. Yves felt himself hoisted unceremoniously by a fistful of his garments at the neck, heaved bodily to the dais, and flung down on his knees at the feet of the man who sat at the end of the table. Almost he fell flat on his face, but fended himself off with his still bound hands, and hung for a moment knocked clean out of breath.
“My lord, here’s your shepherd as you ordered, safe and sound. We’re unloading the goods, and all’s well. Not a soul stirring on the way.”
Yves gathered himself sturdily and got to his feet. He took time to draw a deep breath and steady the shaking of his knees before he looked up into the face of the chief of these nightbirds.
Mounted and looming in the twilight, the man had seemed immense. Easy now in his great chair, he was seen to be no more than common tall, but very powerfully built, wide-shouldered, deep-chested. After a savage fashion he was very comely. Now with the candlelight to show him clearly he was more like a lion than ever, for the thick mane of curling hair and the glossy, untrimmed beard were tawny, and the large eyes, narrowed but sharp as a cat’s beneath heavy lids, were of the same coloring. His lips, left naked among all that profusion of dull gold, were full and curled and proud. He eyed Yves in silence from head to foot, while Yves stared as doughtily back at him, and kept his mouth shut rather out of discretion than fright. There could be worse moments to come. At least now they were back from another successful raid, laden with booty, eating and drinking and in high content with themselves. And the lion seemed in good humor. If his slow smile was mocking, it was at least a smile.
“Loose him,” he said.
The belt was unbuckled from Yves’ cramped arms, the cord untied from his wrists. He stood rubbing the blood back into aching arms, kept his eyes warily on the lion’s face, and waited. A number of the henchmen in the hall had drawn in at his back, grinning, to watch.
“You’ve bitten out your tongue on the way?” asked the bearded man amiably.
“No, my lord. I can speak when I have something to say.”
“You might be well advised to think of something to say now, at once. Something nearer truth than you told me under the copse there.”
Yves could not see that boldness was going to do him any harm here, or the discretion of fear very much good. He said bluntly: “I am hungry, my lord. You would hardly find a truer word than that. And I take it as between gentlemen that you feed your guests.”
The lion threw back his tawny head and loosed a shout of laughter that was echoed down the hall. “And I take that to be a confession. Gentle, are you? Now tell me more, and you shall eat. No more hunting for lost sheep. Who are you?”
He meant to know. And for all his present easy mood, if he was balked he would not mind by what means he got what he wanted. Yves spent a few seconds too long considering what he had better say, and got an earnest of what might follow obduracy. A long arm reached out, gripped him by the forearm, and with a casual twist dropped him wincing to his knees. The other hand clenched in his hair and forced his head back, to stare up into a face still calmly smiling.
“When I ask, wise men answer. Who are you?”
“Let me up and I’ll tell you,” said Yves through his teeth.
“Tell, brat, and I may let you up. I may even feed you. A strutting little cockerel of the nobility you may be, but
