could never capture the castle. We must try other measures. Let us ride at once, and try to reason with him. I have known for years that he wished to marry Constance so that he might have a claim on my lands at my death, but I never thought he would try this scurvy trick. If parley fails then we shall try other measures.”
Young Brian fumed and raged at this, but he was no fool, so that afternoon the three of them, with fifty yeomen at their backs, rode through the dense forests which separated the two fiefs. Toward sunset they halted before the drawbridge of Castle Barnecan. In answer to a trumpet-blast Sir Henry himself appeared at a turret, but made no offer to lower the bridge.
“We have come to demand Lady Constance of you,” shouted Brian.
“I know naught of her,” came the answer in a deep, resonant voice. “I would ask you to enter, but the drawbridge is never lowered here after sunset; and the sun is almost down.” He turned to face the sinking orb, which was gilding him and the castle with a lurid glow.
“Then you refuse to give us news of our lady?” shouted Brian.
“I have said I know naught of her. Is not that enough, young sir? Let you come again tomorrow. You may examine Castle Barnecan from turret to dungeon. But tonight, I regret to say, dear nephew, that you can not enter. Tomorrow I will send men into the forest to search for her, since I greatly admire Constance, as you well know. But tonight we can do nothing in the dark.”
As he finished speaking the sun sank slowly out of sight. At the same time Sir Henry turned and strode from the turret without a farewell, leaving his visitors hesitating on the edge of the moat.
Brian cursed and fumed as they rode back through the dark woods. His horse, which felt the distress of his rider, plunged and fretted.
At last Brian pulled to a halt. “Father,” he said firmly, “I am remaining here tonight to watch the castle. God knows what Gray Henry may try to do. I will keep Gomar with me, since he knows the country roundabout. We will keep a watch together. Come,” he called to the serf. Together they wheeled and disappeared into the dusk.
The others rode in silence. The path under the trees grew darker at each moment. Besides the shuffle of the horses over the fallen leaves there was no sound except now and then the twitter of a sleeping bird, or the far-off howling of a lonely wolf.
“I like it not, Gil,” said the knight, drawing his horse close to that of the Frenchman. “I would that I had not let him stay, but he is his father’s son. Ah, I wish I were twenty years younger! Sir Henry would not have bearded me thus. Aye!” he cried fiercely, “and he shall not, even today. I’m not a dotard yet.”
They were interrupted by the concerted baying of several wolves which had closed in upon the calvalcade. “A pack of them—and in September, too,” murmured the old man, noting the gleaming eyes back among the trees. Note how bold they are. Truly, this means a bleak winter, unless—unless” He grew silent.
They rode on, the horses nervous and shivering as the quavering call of the pack rose about them, the men-at-arms whispering among themselves; the wolves following them at a judicious distance, until the gray towers of Randall showed against the stars.
There was no sleep in the castle that night, but a hurried preparation for battle. Sir Robert realized there was no use appealing to
