Reginald Cobham in a field near Weybridge.

When after a long chase Aylward secured the spare horse and brought it
back, he found his master seated upon a fallen tree, his face buried in
his hands and his mind clouded with humiliation and grief. Nothing was
said, for the matter was beyond words, and so in moody silence they rode
upon their way.

But soon they came upon a scene which drew Nigel's thoughts away from
his bitter trouble, for in front of them there rose the towers of a
great building with a small gray sloping village around it, and they
learned from a passing hind that this was the hamlet and Abbey of
Battle. Together they drew rein upon the low ridge and looked down into
that valley of death from which even now the reek of blood seems to
rise. Down beside that sinister lake and amid those scattered bushes
sprinkled over the naked flank of the long ridge was fought that
long-drawn struggle betwixt two most noble foes with broad England as
the prize of victory. Here, up and down the low hill, hour by hour the
grim struggle had waxed and waned, until the Saxon army had died where
it stood, King, court, house-carl and fyrdsman, each in their ranks even
as they had fought. And now, after all the stress and toil, the tyranny,
the savage revolt, the fierce suppression, God had made His purpose
complete, for here were Nigel the Norman and Aylward the Saxon with
good-fellowship in their hearts and a common respect in their minds,
with the same banner and the same cause, riding forth to do battle for
their old mother England.

And now the long ride drew to an end. In front of them was the blue sea,
flecked with the white sails of ships. Once more the road passed upward
from the heavy-wooded plain to the springy turf of the chalk downs. Far
to the right rose the grim fortalice of Pevensey, squat and powerful,
like one great block of rugged stone, the parapet twinkling with steel
caps and crowned by the royal banner of England. A flat expanse of
reeded marshland lay before them, out of which rose a single wooded
hill, crowned with towers, with a bristle of masts rising out of the
green plain some distance to the south of it. Nigel looked at it with
his hand shading his eyes, and then urged Pommers to a trot. The town
was Winchelsea, and there amid that cluster of houses on the hill the
gallant Chandos must be awaiting him.

XIV. HOW NIGEL CHASED THE RED FERRET

They passed a ferry, wound upward by a curv