When they had quit the Abbey, De Lacy again summoned Raynor Royk and questioned him regarding the Abbot of Kirkstall.  The old soldier, like the majority of his fellows who made fighting a business, had a contemptuous indifference to the clerical class.  A blessing or a curse was alike of little consequence to men who feared neither God, man, nor Devil, and who would as readily strip a sleek priest as a good, fat merchant.  Raynor’s words were blunt and to the point.  He knew nothing of the Abbot except through the gossip of the camp and guard-room, and that made him a cadet of a noble family of the South of England, who for some unknown reason had, in early manhood, suddenly laid aside his sword and shield and assumed Holy Orders.  He had been the Abbot of Kirkstall for many years, and it was understood had great power and influence in the Church; though he, himself, rarely went beyond the limits of his own domain.  He was, however, regarded as an intriguing, political priest, of Lancastrian inclination, but shrewd enough to trim successfully to whatever faction might be in power.

Two of the remaining leagues had been covered, and they were within a mile or so of the Wharfe when, rounding a sharp turn, they came upon a scene that brought every man’s sword from its sheath.  The narrow road, at this point, was through a dense forest of oaks and beeches that crowded to the very edge of the track and formed an arch over it.  The trees grew close together, and the branches were so interlocked that the sunlight penetrated with difficulty; and though the day was still far from spent, yet, here, the shadows had already begun to lengthen into an early twilight.  Some two hundred yards down this road was a group of figures that swayed, now this way, now that, in the broil of conflict, while from it came the clash of steel.  In the road was the dead body of a horse, and, upon either side of it, lay two men who would never draw weapon again.  The one had been split almost to the nose by a single downright blow, and the other had been pierced through the throat by a thrust of the point.

At a little distance, with his back against a tree and defending himself vigorously from the assault of half a dozen men, stood a tall and elderly Knight.  He was not in armor, except for a light corselet of steel, and already he had been more than once slightly wounded.  His bonnet had been lost in the melee, and his grey hair was smudged with blood along the temple.  Two more men were dead at his feet, and for the moment the others hesitated to press in and end the fight.  That huge sword could make short work of at least another pair of them before the hands that held it would relax, and the uncertainty as to which would be the victims stayed their rush.  Suddenly the Knight leaped forward, cut down the one nearest him, and was back to the tree before the others had recovered from their surprise.  Then with a roar of anger they flung themselves upon him,