Half a dozen bystanders instantly joined in the fray, most of them for the purpose of overwhelming the impudent Welshman of Irchenfield: in the midst of the turbulent knot were Ulwin, tugging at Ednoth's shoulders, and Richard, who held on to Howel by the arms and so compelled him to desist from stabbing at the Englishman.
"Peace, thou fool!" cried Richard. "Leave be, now, Howel my man! I will not be embroiled for idle pride of thine. God's death! put up thy dagger!"
Sullenly but promptly, Howel allowed his master to lead him out of the clutches of his assailants.
"Peace, I beg of you, good men," the Norman continued. "We do but hinder the many that care not for our meaning. See, yon lady would come by!"
The crowd had borne Alftrude away from her brother-in-law's side during the scuffle: she stood by the booth of a seller of gilded gingerbread, the nearest stall to the thanes' elmtree, a coin in one hand and two shining half-moons of cake in the other. Distaste and hesitancy were in the look she cast upon the brawlers.
"Lady, fear not," said Richard. "If ye would but lean upon my arm----"
Eagerly she moved towards him, in bland acceptance of his offer; however, before he could approach her, Ulwin had interposed himself, thundering:
"Lay by yon nasty trash! Straight shalt thou wend thee homeward! Spendthrift! Shameless woman! Is this a widow's mourning? Is this modesty? Come home, I say!"
He seized her by the arm, and in so doing trod heavily upon her toes. Alftrude's lips contracted, and her eyelids flickered with the pain, and she steadied herself against the gingerbread stall. Richard the Scrob was now beside them: with the first missile to hand, his own money-bag, he struck at the head of Ulwin; and Ulwin reeled and sat down upon the ground with a curse and a roar.
"Foul clot of dirt!" said Richard. "I will not have thee deal so with her!"
His money-bag was still in his right hand; but why was it no heavier than a strip of pigskin? Where was the reassuring weight to which he had grown used throughout that day?
"Look, look!" the ale-wife screamed. "His ill-gotten silver of itself runs from him! Gather, gather, I say--it is his no more! All these French are to be driven forth. Shall he hoard king's coin in our land?"