a, God!' he spluttered, cracking his fingers, 'so my Richard is the
badger, ha? So then I have him, ha? If I do not draw him myself, by the
Face!'

It is said that Longespee (a son of his by Madame Rosamund) and Geoffrey
(another bastard), with Bohun and De Lacy and some more, tried to hinder
him in this design, wherein (said they) he set out to be a second
Thyestes; but they might as well have bandied words with destiny. 'War
is war,' said the foaming old man, 'whether with a son or a grandmother
you make it. Shall my enemy range the field and I sit at home and lap
caudle? That is not the way of my house.' He would by all means go that
night, and called for volunteers. His English barons, to their credit,
flatly refused either to entrap the son of their master or to abandon
the city at a time so critical. 'What, sire!' cried they, 'are private
resentments, like threadworms, to fret the dams of the state? The floods
are out, my lord King, and brimming at the sluices. Be advised
therefore.'

No wearer of the cap of Anjou was ever advised yet. I can hear in fancy
the gnashing of the old lion's fangs, in fancy see the foam he churned
at the corners of his mouth. He went out with such men as he could
gather in his haste, nineteen of them in all. There were old Gilles and
young Gilles with their men; eight of the King's own choosing, namely,
Drago de Merlou, Armand Taillefer, the Count of Ponthieu, Fulk
Perceforest, Fulk D'Oilly, Gilbert FitzReinfrid, Ponce the bastard of
Caen, and a butcher called Rolf, to whom the King, mocking all chivalry,
gave the gilt spurs before he started. He did not wear them long. The
nineteenth was that great king, bad man, and worse father, Henry
Curtmantle himself.

It was a very dark night, without moon or stars, a hot and still night
wherein a man weather-wise might smell the rain. The going upon the moor
was none too good in a good light; yet they tell me that the old King
went spurring over brush and scrub, over tufted roots, through ridge and
hollow, with as much cheer as if the hunt was up in Venvil Wood and
himself a young man. When his followers besought him to take heed, all
he would do was snap his fingers, the reins dangling loose, and cry to
the empty night, 'Hue, Brock, hue!' as if he was baiting a badger. This
badger was the heir to his crown and dignity.

In the Dark Tower they heard him coming three miles away. Roussillon was
on the battlements, and came down to report horse