"This honour should by rights have gone to Milburga, and the slight augmented her ill-will. But it seemed that the lady noticed little of the undercurrents on her manor, her whole thought centred in the baby and even when she talked or sang with the Gascon she held her child in her arms and joyfully suckled it whenever it whimpered.

The twenty-ninth of June would be the feast day of St. Peter and St. Paul, and the important one of the year for Kettlethorpe folk since it celebrated the dedication of their parish church. On this day, after morning Mass, the villagers had always held high carnival with sports and copious drinking, which reached its climax with the lighting of bonfires on Ket's hill and at the four corners of the parish. This year, they were uneasy about their celebration, having sharply in mind the unfortunate consequences of their May Eve rites and being uncertain of Lady Katherine's attitude or that of Nirac, the hateful little watch-dog the Duke had set over them.

A week before the festival they deputed their reeve to approach Katherine and find out her wishes. On the afternoon when Sim Tanner, the reeve, walked on his wooden clogs from the village to the manor house, it was pouring cold rain from a dun-coloured sky. He presented himself dripping at the door of the Hall, his leather jerkin stained with mud.

Katherine was in the Hall with Nirac and Gibbon, whom she often had carried there so that he might he by the fire and have a change of view. She greeted the reeve courteously, thinking that he came to consult Gibbon on some farm matter, then seated herself again on the low chair and picked up her spindle.

Nirac had been amusing himself by whittling a set of chessmen from an alder slab. When they were finished he hoped to teach Katherine chess, of which game he had learned a smattering from one of the Duke's squires. Nirac found life at Kettlethorpe exceedingly dull and looked up eagerly at the reeve's entrance, then, disappointed that it was not some more interesting visitor, returned to his whittling.

Gibbon lay on a pile of deerskins near the central hearth. This was one of his good days when his mind was clear and he fancied that he could feel a faint tingling in his legs. His speech, however, had grown thicker and more halting in the last months and he seldom forced it. His eyelids flickered greeting to the reeve, then his veiled gaze returned to Katherine. Watching her was the last pleasure left him, and he always made the servants deposit him close to her chair.

She was not yet skilled at spinning, but since the baby had come she had forsaken lute-playing and embroidery for more useful arts. She twirled the coarse grey fibres on to her spindle from the distaff and watched the process with a small frown of concentration that Gibbon thought bewitching. The baby lay gurgling in a plaited willow basket at her feet and whenever her eyes left the baulky yarn, which frequently knotted or broke, they strayed downward towards the basket and a light came into them. If she ever looks at a man like that - thought Gibbon, what rapture she would kindle. But it'll never be Hugh. He sighed, and thought with some pity of his half-brother.

Sim, who had been standing as near the fire as he dared while his jerkin steamed drier, now cleared his throat. "Prithee, m'lady, I come to ask ye summat. I speak for all your villeins."

"Aie - e!" cried Nirac, cocking his head and instantly alert. "And now what does that meaching canaille want of her?"

The reeve's slit mouth tightened, his cold haddock eyes flicked to the Gascon then back to Katherine, who laid down her spindle and waited. "Next Tuesday's our church day, lady," he continued. "Since the time of our great gaffers and long before, Kettlethorpe folk've held the day special for sport and feasting."

"Pardieu!" Nirac threw down his knife and jumped up to stand by Katherine. " 'Tis all they do here, these worthless churls - feasting and sporting. Never do they think of work!" This was manifestly unfair, for the serfs had had no time off since May Eve, but he despised the serfs and considered that anything that thwarted them advanced Katherine's interests.

"Tell him, madam," he said, lower, to Katherine, "to take his farouche fishface out of here and return to his tasks."

"Peace, Nirac!" said Katherine sternly. She didn't like the reeve, who treated her with the same veiled disrespect Milburga did, but Gibbon said he served the manor well. She glanced down at Gibbon, who was watching her with a faint smile on his bloodless lips. He did not try to answer her unspoken question because he felt that she must learn to handle manor matters herself and, besides, he knew not what advice to give. In strict justice, the villeins deserved their feast day as they had always had it, yet there would be drunkenness and brawling and probably deaths as there had been other years. The manor could ill afford to lose a single strong pair of arms, though the lechery that accompanied their celebration was beneficial to the manor. The more brats that were bred in the fields and haycocks the better, since on each one a cash fine of leyrewite would be due to Hugh. On the other hand, the "custom of the manor" decreed largesse from its lord with free ale and meat provided, and this would seriously tax the manor's slender larder. Since the serfs were forbidden to hunt game, and Nirac had no experience of lordly sports, there was no one to bring in meat, and Katherine's resources would be seriously depleted by the slaughter of a sufficient amount of oxen or sheep.

Katherine knew little of these practical considerations and she knew that the reeve's request was reasonable enough; but his insolent pop-eyes annoyed her and she said coldly, "And if I refuse permission, you might defy me as you did on May Eve?"

Sim's long face flushed and, before he could answer, Nirac sprang forward like a cat. "They cannot defy you, for they have me to reckon with - me, Nirac le Gascon! My sword is ready. I shall carve the miserable ladrones into mincemeat, I shall slice their ears and fingers-"

"Chut! Nirac-" Katherine cried impatiently. She was used to his extravagances, but the reeve had gone chalk-white and his voice was high and thin like a neighing horse. "And whilst you're brandishing your sword and dagger, you greasy meacock, what think you we'll be doing? We've pitchforks, and axes, and scythes - we can carve off ears and fingers too, ay, and cods and stones-"

"Sim - Sim-" gasped Gibbon from his pallet. Nobody heard him. Katherine stood frozen, while a dangerous stillness flowed over the Gascon. "You t'reaten me?" he said softly. "Do you forget, miserable serf, that I wear the livery of the Duke of Lancaster?"

The reeve's face convulsed, his furious breath flattened his nostrils. "He's not my overlord!" he shouted. "I spit upon your Duke of Lancaster!"

The instant the spittle left his mouth, the reeve was frightened. Nirac gave him no time for repentance, he scooped the whittling knife off the table and sprang.

"Holy name of God, Nirac!" Katherine screamed, as a spurt of blood jetted against the stone wall. "You'll kill him! He's unarmed." Neither of them heard her. The panting bodies struggled, knocking against the stools and table. Katherine grabbed the baby and ran on to the dais. "Help!" she cried. "For Christ's sake, help!"

A slow sob rose in Gibbon's throat and his left hand twitched. The fighting men rolled and stumbled over him as though he were part of the floor, his mantle became drenched with the reeve's blood.

The kitchen folk heard the noise and their mistress's cries. They crowded around the wooden screen, peering fearfully.

"Stop them, Will!" cried Katherine. "Hurry!" The cook did not move. He had not yet understood the scene except for a vague hope that the reeve was murdering the hated Gascon.

The men rolled near the corner of the dais and Katherine heard a bubbling liquid groan. Nirac was on top, his knees on the reeve's chest, his knife hand raised again. She put the baby in the centre of the great table and, jumping from the dais, clenched her teeth and, grabbing a handful of Nirac's streaming black hair, jerked with all her might. "Halte!" she shouted, "au nom du duc!"

Nirac's grasp loosened, he shook his head in a dazed way, trying to free his hair. She pulled harder so that his face was forced upwards and he saw hers. "You don't want that I kill him?" he panted. "Yet you heard what he said!"

"I think you have killed him. Get up!" She hauled him off the inert reeve who lay gasping and bleeding on the flags. She knelt beside the man, and distractedly wiped his face with the hem of her gown. "Milburga, bring water and linen - someone get the priest. Hurry!"

"Bah!" said Nirac, smoothing his hair back and wiping his knife on a handful of rushes, "the salaud won't need the priest." He examined his victim with a practised eye. "A few cuts, my knife is short - he's had no more than a good blood-letting. Had I had my dagger-"

Nirac was right, it appeared, for by the time Sir Robert and his Molly came puffing into the Hall, Sim was recovering. There was no need for the priest nor even need of Molly's leechcraft. The cuts and stabs had hit no vital spot except for the artery in the arm and that stopped spurting when Katherine tied the liripipe of the reeve's own hood tight above the wound.

The manor folk clustered around, glancing sideways at Katherine, who had rushed back to the dais to soothe her crying baby and remove it from the table. They did not look at Nirac, who had nonchalantly returned to his stool and was whittling. Will Cooke and old Toby helped the reeve to his feet and supported him out of the door and back to his cot in the village. The reeve had not said a word or raised his bloodshot eyes as he tottered away.