There need be no mystery, so far as the reader is concerned, as to who the riders were. One was William de Collingham, the other was Wolf, the son of Styr, and it was clear from the caution with which they moved, that they were bent on some enterprise to the success of which secrecy was essential.
“Sir knight,” said the boy, in a low tone, “this is the spot.”
“Art thou certain?” asked the knight, looking round.
“As certain as that I serve the Icinglas, and that I played the part of a goblin page in Chas-Chateil.”
“Good,” said the knight, pulling up his steed, and taking his bugle-horn from his belt as to sound a blast. However, he did not blow the round notes, but gave a low, peculiar whistle, which brought a man from among the trees. It was one of those obscure nights common in the month of May, and the moon affording but a dim light, the knight could not make out the figure of the person who approached.
“The Black Raven,” was the reply; and as the man drew near the knight and Wolf recognised Styr the Saxon.
“All is right,” replied the Saxon. “We have nothing to do but commend ourselves to the saints and proceed to the work before us.”
“In God’s name, then, let it so be,” said the knight. “Summon the men who are assembled, and let us to the business. By this hour, I doubt not,” added he, “that the drunken governor is going through his nocturnal exercises.”
Collingham, as he spoke, dismounted, gave his horse into the care of Wolf, and getting under the shadow of the trees, kept humming the song of “I go to the Greenwood, for Love invites me,” till Styr returned with a hundred men at his back, all armed, and prepared to attack or resist foes just as occasion should arise. Some of them were simply peasants, others fighting men in the knight’s pay; but most of them were neither more nor less than forest outlaws. Each of them was dressed in a short green kirtle, hose of the same colour, a leathern cap or head-piece, and armed with a short sword, a horn slung over his shoulder, a long bow in his hand, and a bunch of arrows in his belt. A formidable band it was, though not numerous, and destined ere long, when increased tenfold, to be celebrated by minstrels as holding out bravely against the invader, when all others fled before his sword or crouched at his feet. At the time of which I write the existence of Collingham’s band was not even known to the French. Ere twelve months passed over, the cry of the Black Raven was more terrible to Louis and his captains than an army with banners.