Then he thought of victuals and water. The well was round behind the wood lodge, and Fulk drew several buckets, carried them in, and filled every empty jug and crock that he could find. He caught a couple of fowls, wrung their necks, and hung them in the larder. Nor were faggots forgotten; there was a stack of them behind the house, and Fulk made sure of having fuel for the baking of their bread.
When he climbed the ladder into the loft he found that Isoult had discovered an old hauberk and a rusty helmet with a face guard and had armed herself to mighty good purpose. She was at the window, with an arrow ready on the string.
“Heart of mine, can you never leave death alone?”
He dropped his vizor, and, drawing her aside, took her place at the window. Merlin’s men were scattered along the further bank, watching for something tangible to shoot at.
“Seventeen trailbastons left. We have settled eight between us this morning.”
Even as he spoke, an arrow flew in at the window and stuck in the opposite wall.
“They have marked us down. If we keep to this one window their arrows will fly in like wasps.”
They returned to the hall, and Fulk dragged the daïs table against the wall. It was a good length, and made a platform from which he could command two out of the six lancet windows.
He went into the kitchen and came back with a broomstick, a loaf, and an old piece of dark sacking, and sticking the loaf on the end of the broomstick, fastened the cloth to it with a couple of skewers.
“Nothing like a good use of one’s wits. Show that at the other windows, and bob it to and fro. I wager it will fool them.”
Fulk had laid his arrows ready against the wall, and that battle of the bows began and lasted no more than thirteen minutes. The loaf on the broomstick was slain three times over. Fulk brought down two men and winged another, till Merlin’s men lost heart and took cover in the thickets. They had shot off nearly all their arrows, and had no more than six left between them.
Fulk stood there, waiting for a chance shot.
“Seventeen less three leaves fourteen, without counting Master Merlin.”
He mused, leaning one shoulder against the wall.
“Can you read me this riddle, Isoult? Who has set these dogs on us?”