Jean squeezed his youngest daughter, and as her arms twined round his neck, he wondered bleakly who was comforting whom.

‘It won’t take long, will it?’ Katarin asked. Her father’s moustache tickled her cheek.

‘Let’s pray not, for your mother’s sake.’ And observing that his daughter’s eyes were more green than brown, the knight asked, ‘How old are you, Katarin?’

‘Five, Papa,’ she said, proudly.

‘Five, eh?’ Katarin was five years old, and he had only just noticed what a pretty colour her eyes were. He resolved to try and spend more time with her. ‘You’ll be able to help with the baby now you’re so big.’

Ned was breaking a crust on the lower trestle with an expression of studied neutrality on his face.

‘Fletcher!’ Raymond bawled. ‘Throw that wine jar over, will you?’

Ned looked startled to receive such a peremptory summons, as well he might, for he was no was no manservant, but good-naturedly he did as he was requested.

‘Here, Fletcher,’ pointedly ignoring his elders, Raymond kicked out a bench for Ned, ‘Do the honours for me, would you, and pour one for yourself? I like drinking in congenial company.’

Ned looked at Jean, who tiredly indicated that he could take a place at their board.

‘I know a prayer,’ Katarin chirped up.

‘Do you, sweet?’ Pressing a kiss on Katarin’s downy cheek, Jean disposed the child more comfortably in his arms. ‘You say it quietly to yourself, while I talk to Uncle Waldin. Your prayer will help Mama.’

The hazel eyes filled with pleasure and, thumb in mouth, Katarin began mumbling the Paternoster.

‘Obliging child,’ Sir Jean murmured, realising from his daughter’s glazed expression that she would be asleep in a few minutes.

‘You’ve another lovely maid in the making there, Jean,’ he commented.

‘Aye.’ Jean steered the conversation away from children. ‘I hear that France is planning a Grand Tourney the like of which has never been seen.’

Depositing brawny arms on the table, Waldin leaned forward. ‘When’s it to be?’

‘Next year, after Lammastide.’

The wide shoulders drooped. ‘I’d hoped it would be sooner than that. Where will it be?’

‘I’m not sure. Paris, I think.’

‘Paris,’ Waldin murmured.

‘I thought you’d retired, Waldin,’ Jean teased.

The champion gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘So did I. I thought I was being very clever saving my skin before I got too old, but I confess I miss the circuit. You’ve no idea what it can be like, Jean. The noise. The excitement. The horses feel it too. They know, Jean.’

‘Do they like it?’ Ned cut in.

‘What? The horses? Oh, aye. They like it alright. You should see them champing at their bits before the baton falls.’ Waldin flushed, the force of his enthusiasm embarrassed him. ‘It’s hard to convey how I feel.’

‘It’s in your blood,’ his brother said.

‘Aye. It’s a fever that’s got into my blood. And now I’m home. I’m old enough to know better, I’ve enough money in my scrip to last several lifetimes, and good lads to pass my knowledge onto,’ he jerked his head at his nephew and Ned, ‘I should be content.’

‘Will you attend the tournament?’ Ned’s blue eyes were bright with interest.

Waldin hoisted heavy shoulders. ‘Who knows? A year’s a long time, Fletcher. Maybe I will go, but I’m sadly out of practise.’

‘I’d love to go,’ Ned said.

Waldin smiled a smile of complete understanding. ‘Perhaps I’ll ask my brother to give you leave, and you could act as my squire.’

‘Would you?’ Delight shone from every line on Ned’s face.

‘I might, if you continue to improve the way you’re doing at the moment.’

‘Thank you, sir. Sir Waldin, I’ve been wanting to ask you...it’s about swords...’

‘Go on, lad.’

‘I was hoping you’d explain why Damascened swords are prized so.’

‘Damascened swords, eh? Excellent in single combat, but they’re of no use in a mêlée. I don’t recall mentioning Damascened swords to you, Fletcher.’

‘You didn’t, sir. But last time I ran an errand to the armourer, I overheard his conversation with another customer. They were extolling the virtues of Damascened blades.’

‘Damascened swords first came over from the East,’ Waldin was happy to explain. ‘There’s no denying they will carry an edge no other sword can take, and they’re have a flexibility I’ve yet to see in another sword. But they’re too light for the tournies. A knight needs a sword with more clout in a mêlée.’

‘How are they made, sir?’

‘In simple terms, the sword smith beats out the steel over and over, before folding it back on itself. Then he starts the process all over. It’s a very skilled and lengthy business.’

‘Expensive, I should think,’ Ned said.

‘It is that.’ Waldin grinned. ‘Only princes and dukes can afford them.’

‘Could the heavier swords be made to take a similar edge?’

Here, Fletcher,’ Raymond plucked peevishly at Ned’s tunic, ‘you’re supposed to be talking to me.’

The excitement vanished from Ned’s face as swiftly as though someone had snuffed a candle out. ‘My apologies, Master Raymond.’

‘Pour me more wine.’

Lifting the flagon, Ned looked across it at Waldin. ‘I’ll hold you to your promise, sir,’ he said, earnestly. ‘I’ll keep my nose to the grindstone in order to be your squire.’

‘You ought to try and forget the tournaments, Waldin,’ Jean said. ‘You were courting disaster to go on as long as you did, and at your ripe old age you’d be begging for it.’

‘It’s a form of madness, I cannot deny that,’ Waldin agreed. ‘But there’s glory in it.’

Jean looked tenderly at the sleeping child in his arms. ‘I’ve never understood your fascination with glory, Waldin. When it comes down to it, you end up spilling a gallon of blood, and it seems to me it’s largely a matter of chance whether it’s your blood or someone else’s.’

‘I understand,’ Ned put in.

‘Heaven help us,’ Jean said, in a resigned voice. ‘Your prating about glory is unsettling my men, Waldin.’ He glanced warmly at Ned. ‘I want to keep my sergeant. I don’t want to lose him to the jousts.’

‘Oh, I’d come back, sir, but it’s good to dream.’

Raymond felt it was time he stuck his oars in. ‘Dream!’ He snorted. ‘All you ever do is dream.’ Predictably, Ned flushed. Raymond turned his fire on his uncle. ‘And as for wasting yourself for glory’s sake, Uncle, I agree with my father. You’re mad. I would only risk myself for something...tangible.’

Waldin’s brown eyes narrowed. ‘Like an inheritance, perhaps?’ he suggested softly. He was hoping his nephew was merely stirring the pot to see what was in it.

Raymond took his time answering. ‘Aye. I’d say an inheritance was worth fighting for. Father, do you not agree?’ But his father’s attention was fixed on the sounds filtering down the solar stairs. ‘Father?’

‘What’s that you said, Raymond?’

‘I was telling my uncle that I wouldn’t risk my neck for glory alone.’

‘No.’ Jean’s eyes were glued to the rafters. He stroked his daughter’s hair. ‘I’ve always needed something to fight for myself.’

Lurching for the wine, Raymond forged on, making what he thought was a winning point. ‘Being the eldest son, Papa, you had something to fight for. Whereas Waldin, being the poor, younger son, had to make do with glory.’

‘I’ve been content, lad,’ Waldin put in, quickly.

‘You might have been. I–’

A muffled shriek leeched the colour from Jean’s cheeks. ‘Sweet Jesus, does she have to suffer so?’

‘Here, Jean, have a drink,’ Waldin suggested. ‘It will help you forget–’

‘Forget? God’s Teeth, Waldin! How the bloody hell do you think I can forget that she is suffering?’

‘It will help you relax.’ Firmly, Waldin pressed an earthenware cup into his brother’s hand. ‘Take it. You look like a death’s-head.’

Jean caught Ned’s sympathetic glance on him and knew he must set an example. An excess of sympathy never made for efficient fighting men, and Ned Fletcher was not the only one of his troop in the hall. Denis the Red and some others had drifted in for their evening meal. The mistress of the household might be fighting for her life, but the evening meals must still be served. Now why had he picked on that unfortunate phrase? God grant that Yolande was not fighting for her life...