His bow was slung over his shoulder, and his arms were round the
waists of two buxom Frenchwomen, who tripped along beside him with
much laughter and many saucy answers flung back over their
shoulders to a score of admirers behind them.
"Aylward!" cried Nigel, spurring forward.
The archer turned his bronzed face, stared for an instant with
wild eyes, and then, dropping his two ladies, who were instantly
carried off by his comrades, he rushed to seize the hand which his
young master held down to him. "Now, by my hilt, Squire Nigel,
this is the fairest sight of my lifetime!" he cried. "And you,
old leather-face! Nay, Simon, I would put my arms round your
dried herring of a body, if I could but reach you. Here is
Pommers too, and I read in his eye that he knows me well and is as
ready to put his teeth into me as when he stood in my father's
stall."
It was like a whiff of the heather-perfumed breezes of Hankley to
see his homely face once more. Nigel laughed with sheer joy as he
looked at him.
"It was an ill day when the King's service called you from my
side," said he, "and by Saint Paul! I am right glad to set eyes
upon you once more! I see well that you are in no wise altered,
but the same Aylward that I have ever known. But who is this
varlet with the great bundle who waits upon your movements?"
"It is no less than a feather-bed, fair sir, which he bears upon
his back, for I would fain bring it to Tilford, and yet it is
overlarge for me when I take my place with my fellows in the
ranks.
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