‘Just so.’

‘Then, mon seigneur, I would say it mattered little where you strike camp.’

François beamed at his youngest knight, delighted to find the latest addition to his household had a modicum of intelligence. But he could not keep smiling at a man when all he could see of him was the glitter of his eyes through a slit in his visor. His smile died. ‘I’ve an eye to advancing my interests in France,’ François murmured under his breath. ‘Captain?’

‘Mon seigneur?’

‘Find the French section. We’ll camp there. And pitch my pavilion as close to King Philippe’s as humanly possible.’

***

Two days before the jousting began, Conan limped into the enclosure.

He’d not had an easy journey, but in Paris he had begged passage for himself and the shabby grey mongrel on a carter’s waggon. The carter was transporting hazel-wand cages bristling with hens, and it was agreed that Conan should keep an eye on them and make sure no one made off with them.

‘These hens,’ the burly Frenchman said proudly, ‘are bound for the King’s board. His chef would skin me alive if I lost any.’

Conan was set down on the outskirts of the teeming encampment, in the Breton section. Despite the rest his feet had had while riding in the cart, they remained sore. He’d walked his way through the soles of his boots, and though he’d spotted cobblers aplenty in Paris, he could not afford city prices. Consequently he was barefoot, a state of affairs that he was determined he would not have to endure for much longer.

Hobbling out of the path of a mailed knight atop a mountain of a horse, Conan sat down to chafe his aching feet and consider where he’d be most likely to find the chicken he intended plucking. He deemed it wisest to begin immediately, before hunger and thirst took their toll, and he headed straight for the area that had been cordoned off for the Bretons’ horses.

The girl’s high-bred mare was easy to find. It was tethered not far from three young grooms with Brittany’s livery splashed across their broad breasts. The lads were seated in a circle on upturned leather buckets, dicing on the base of a fourth bucket. They were meant to be on guard. The tallest of them was chewing a piece of straw and he looked enquiringly at Conan, while one of his fellows rolled the dice.

‘Good day,’ Conan said, ensuring his damaged arm was tucked well out of sight.

Lantern jaws masticating, the tall groom checked the fall of the dice and grimaced. ‘God rot you, Samson,’ he said, good-naturedly, ‘you’ve had the longest winning streak in history.’

Samson smiled and threw again.

‘Pretty mare you have there,’ Conan said, regarding Samson and his lucky dice.

The groom with the straw brought his overhanging brows down. ‘What’s that to you?’

Conan glanced meaningfully at the dice-thrower whose head was bent low over the makeshift table. ‘If you’d permit a stranger to advise you?’

The straw was removed. ‘Advise me?’

Conan lowered his voice and jerked his head at Samson. ‘Aye. He bears watching, does that one.’

The Duke of Brittany’s tall groom leaped the rope barrier and was at Conan’s side in an instant. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Try turning out his sleeves. I think you’ll discover the reason for his good fortune.’

‘Loaded dice?’

Conan nodded, and heard the hiss of the groom’s indrawn breath.

‘Jesus God! If you’re right, that snake’s filched a fortune.’ He lifted his voice to a bellow. ‘Samson! Freeze, you worm!’

***

‘Le Bret,’ Duke Geoffrey handed Alan a parchment upon which he had scrawled a few lines, ‘see this reaches my lady wife, will you?’

Alan bowed and thrust the Duke’s letter down the front of his tunic. ‘I’ll see to it myself, Your Grace.’

Duchess Constance of Brittany’s white silk pavilion was pitched next to the Duke’s. Having delivered the note, Alan stood in the shade under the Duchess’s awning. He could see between the two rows of retainers’ shelters to his own tent halfway down the line. It was easy to pick out because of the two triangular patches that were visible from this side. A hooded man was walking past his tent at that very moment.

With sudden insight, Alan stiffened, and turned all his attention on the cowled figure. A thick hood in August? The man was hiding his face. Would he do that if he were honest?

The figure paused outside Alan’s tent and showed uncommon interest in the triangular patches in the canvas.

Concluding that he had caught a sneak thief in the act of sizing up a likely place to rob, Alan started casually down the string of tents. Like most sensible people, Alan carried his valuables on his person. He hoped his cousin did the same. By the time he was two-thirds of the way down the line, the hooded figure had lifted the tent flap and ducked inside. Half expecting a shriek that would tell him that Gwenn was resting inside, Alan abandoned any pretence of indifference. He snatched out his dagger and charged through the opening.

‘Christ aid!’ the fellow squealed.

Alan caught a glimpse of a taut, unshaven face and two terrified eyes, but the light was poor in his tent, and until he had the man outside...

The thief had disembowelled one of the saddlebags and Gwenn’s spare bliaud was strewn over the groundsheet. Knife up, Alan lunged, delivering a cut to the thief’s calf. The wretch yelped. Another knife gleamed dully in the shadows. His opponent was breathing hard, and he retaliated. It was a wild, awkward blow and easily deflected. Nonetheless, Alan’s feet tangled in Gwenn’s gown. He kicked himself free. A dog barked, and a ball of grey fur hurtled through the tent flap. Yellow teeth sank into one of Alan’s boots. Alan couldn’t shake it off. Whilst he was distracted by the dog, the thief slid past him. His breath was foul.

Alan dived, caught an arm and held on. The man whimpered as though he’d severed a tendon. Steel streaked silver past Alan’s eyes and Alan jerked back. The thief wriggled, kneed Alan in the groin, and fled. The mangy grey ball loosed hold of his boot and shot out of the tent.

Doubled up in the entrance, gasping with pain, Alan watched them go. There was something odd about that man. He had no shoes, but that in itself was not significant. Alan sharpened his gaze. The man’s right hand was missing. So it was not the first time the knave had been a-thieving. His punishment had obviously failed to reform him. Alan pushed to his feet and dusted himself down. There was no need to chase him. Thieves were usually cowards. Having burnt his fingers here, he’d not be back. ‘Foiled you this time, my friend,’ Alan murmured. After stowing Gwenn’s belongings in her bag, he returned to the Duke.

***

Alan didn’t mention the thief to Gwenn or Ned, but while he arranged for his cousin’s introduction to Duke Geoffrey, he advised Ned to stick near to the tent, saying that the summons to the Duke’s presence might arrive at any moment.

While Gwenn sheltered from the afternoon sun in the relative cool of the tent, Ned had stationed himself outside, craning his neck to see past the other tents. His hungry blue eyes were trained on the distant lists, where a handful of knights were practising, ready for the tourney which was set to begin in two days’ time.

Gwenn wiped her damp brow with the back of her hand and sank languidly onto her bedroll. She could hear the clashing of swords, and wondered at the men who could don full armour in August and fight, just for the glory of it. She was tired as well as hot.

Alan’s tent was cramped, and she had not found it easy to sleep hemmed in on the one hand by her husband, and on the other by Alan. On the first night, she had been so worn out by travelling that she had dropped off almost at once, only to be shaken from her dreams minutes later by Ned. She had twisted round to peer at him. ‘Ned?’