Adam shook his head.

‘Because he knew I wouldn’t keep lecturing the soldiers about mere peccadilloes. Men will always gamble, take the Lord’s name in vain, and fornicate where they shouldn’t with someone else’s woman, and then brawl about it. They’re unlikely to take much notice of the bleatings of a mealy-mouthed priest young enough in some instances to be their grandson. I suppose I could hurl hellfire and damnation at them, but I prefer to keep that for the sins that really matter — like murder.’

Adam looked sharply at John. A soft, myopic doe-brown his eyes might be, but they bore the clarity of knowledge. ‘You believe me then?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘No one else does.’

‘That is not true,’ John contradicted. ‘It is just that empty vessels make the most noise, and if you’ve noticed, it’s all coming from de Mortimer’s side. Don’t worry, Adam, we’re not all out to knife you in the back. That’s Warrin de Mortimer’s particular vice.’ He took a mouthful of the eel stew, swallowed, and added thoughtfully, ‘I saw Warrin de Mortimer in the early spring when I was returning from my studies in Paris. He was a member of a hawking party that included William le Clito when they crossed our path.’

‘He was what?’ Adam stared.

‘There were a lot of other young men present, mostly from the French court, I think. I do not suppose there is any harm in going hawking with William le Clito, it just depends what they were talking about, but I didn’t hear any of that.’ He reached for a piece of the fine white bread that had been baked especially for the feast. ‘I saw Ralf, too.’

‘What, with them?’

‘No, the following day just outside Les Andelys. He was kicking his heels beside a water trough, obviously waiting for someone. I would not have recognised him, my eyesight being what it is, but my horse needed to drink and Ralf was too close for me to miss. He wasn’t pleased at being discovered either, and not just because there was a woman clinging to his arm or because I’m Heulwen’s half-brother.’ He bit into the crust and moistened it with a sip of wine. ‘He asked me not to say anything, tapped his nose and told me he was about the King’s private business, and at the time I believed him. I had no reason to doubt then.’ He gave Adam a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, the King knows. I told my Lord Leicester last night as soon as I realised its significance and he took it straight to Henry, so even if this trial by combat doesn’t favour your cause, it’s not a lost one. Warrin de Mortimer is marked.’

‘I thought that the victor’s arm was aided by divine intervention,’ Adam said drily, as he attempted a morsel of the fish stew himself and grimaced. A favourite dish of Henry’s it might be, but in Adam’s opinion, Henry was welcome to it.

‘That is the theory,’ John said with spurious gravity. ‘But divine intervention is a fickle force to depend upon, and I should know, I’m a priest.’ Then he sobered and fixed Adam with a troubled stare. ‘Warrin used to be able to flatten you in the tilt yard when we were children, ’ he said.

‘He’s relying on that memory now,’ Adam agreed, ‘but I was only half-grown then, and he was almost at his full strength. We’re much of a height now. I know that he is broader, but if so, then I have the edge on speed.’ His smile was wry. ‘Still, it won’t do any harm to pray for me, and for Heulwen.’ He reached for his cup and took a quick swallow of the wine. It was Rhenish, the kind he had lived on for several months of purgatory at the German court, the kind with which he had almost killed himself on the day of Heulwen’s marriage to Ralf. ‘I’ve loved her for a long time,’ he said.

‘The way she used to look at Ralf ought to have melted that ingrate’s bones,’ John reflected, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably, ‘but he ran after other women instead.’

Adam put his drink down and tugged at a loose thread on the gold embroidery at his tunic cuff. ‘I think I would call him out too if he still lived,’ he muttered, and snapping off the thread, sprinkled it from his fingers where it drifted, flickering with light, into a candle flame and was consumed in a brief, bright flaring.


The morning of the trial dawned knife-cold with a slicing wind from the east. Frost gleamed like crumbled loaf sugar on every rooftop and pinnacle, frilled the edge of the Thames in crackling silver praline and dredged the beached boats like sugared marchpane confections. The air was grainy with minute frozen particles, sharp as crushed ice to breathe.

Adam rose as the first streaks of dawn sparkled on the thick swatches of frost layering the shutters, broke the panel of ice in the bowl set on the coffer, and having sluiced his face, went to first Mass, his heart as heavy as lead within him but his mind composed for the coming ordeal. He heard Mass, he made confession, was absolved, and sat down to break his fast with Sweyn. Austin served them hot wine, bread and cheese, his manner both restless and subdued.

Sweyn rubbed one huge, calloused palm over his beard, loudly vibrated his larynx, and spat into the rushes. ‘Watch his footwork,’ he growled. ‘It was always his weakest point. If you can fault him there, then you have a chance. Do not, whatever you do, lock horns with him bull to bull because he will kill you.’

‘I do have eyes in my head!’ Adam snapped. He broke a hunk of bread from the loaf, took a bite, and without tasting it, washed it well down with a gulp of the wine.

‘What about brains?’ Sweyn enquired, unimpressed. ‘If you’re not prepared to listen to some sound advice, then you’re a fool.’

Adam inhaled to retort, saw the fear lurking behind the drawn-down bushy brows and half-lowered lids, and was silenced. ‘I am listening,’ he said instead. ‘I just become edgy before a battle. You should know that by now.’

Sweyn’s expression softened for a moment. ‘Aye well,’ he muttered, ‘that’s as may be, but you’ll need to be on an even keel before you step into that arena.’

‘Have you ever known me not so when it has mattered?’

‘No, but it has never touched you so closely before.’ Sweyn braced his hands upon the board and shoved to his feet. ‘I’ll give you a workout to warm up when you’ve done eating — I’m going for a piss.’

Adam watched him to the door, then lowered his gaze to the bread between his hands. He did not really want it, but knew he had to eat something. It might be unwise to go into a fight with a loaded stomach, but if the ordeal were to last any length of time, then an unsustained sword arm was liable to fail. He forced another piece down, took a gulp of wine, and became aware of the intent scrutiny of his squire.

‘Austin, stop looking at me as though I were already corpsed in my coffin and go and fetch my sword,’ he snapped.

The youth rubbed his wrist across the dark down on his upper lip. ‘They are laying bets in the alehouse down the road that you won’t last more than ten minutes against Warrin de Mortimer,’ he said, his young voice torn between indignation and doubt.

‘Are they?’ Adam arched one eyebrow. ‘Because I am guilty of slander, or because my sword arm’s supposedly weaker than his?’

‘Both, my lord.’

Adam shoved the empty cup aside and swept his hand impatiently across the debris of bread on the trestle. ‘Did you make a wager?’

The squire reddened. ‘Yes, my lord. They all laughed at me, but they were willing to take my coin.’ His eyes brightened with contempt. ‘Their loss. They haven’t seen you fight.’

Adam snorted. ‘God knows what your father will think. He entrusted your training to me, and thus far I’ve set you a fine example, haven’t I? Drink, women and gambling.’

Austin’s blush receded. He gave Adam one of his incorrigible looks. ‘It was Papa who gave me the money for the bet and told me to put some on for him too while I was about it.’

‘That’s very encouraging,’ Adam said with a pained smile, adding, ‘Austin, I don’t want you standing round catching your death of cold while I do battle. God knows, one fatality is enough today. Get my sword, lad, then I want you to go to your father’s house and await my summons.’

Austin’s throat rippled. ‘My lord, I want to be there,’ he said resolutely. ‘It is my place as your squire.’

‘It won’t be pleasant, whatever the outcome,’ Adam warned, watching him with thoughtful eyes, assessing the youth’s degree of control and maturity. ‘If I am killed, I expect all members of my household to behave with dignity. If you think your grief or rage are going to goad you into some act of folly, then I cannot permit you to come.’

‘I promise to uphold your honour, my lord.’ Austin stood straight, tears glittering in his hazel-green eyes. ‘Please do not send me to my father.’

Adam gave him a curt nod. ‘So be it then.’ He left the trestle and went to pick up and buckle on his swordbelt, giving the youth time to compose himself. Austin wiped his face on his cuff, then went to lift the scabbard from its leaning place against the wall. The gilded leather sheath resting across one palm, the pommel across the other, he suddenly stiffened and stared at the woman standing in the doorway.

‘My lady,’ he muttered, his face burning scarlet.

Adam swung round, his own complexion as dusky as his squire’s before it slowly faded to match the hue of his bleached linen shirt. Without taking his eyes from Heulwen, he held out his hand for the sword and dismissed Austin with a brief gesture. The boy hesitated, then bowed, and with obvious reluctance left the room. Heulwen stood aside to let him pass, then closed the door and, putting down the hood of her cloak, advanced towards Adam. He noticed that the ornate brooch no longer adorned her cloak but had been replaced by the simple braided pin she had formerly worn.