‘Hello, Fletscher,’ he said, too far gone to remark upon the coincidence of the sergeant stumbling across him in his old haunt. ‘We never did finish our drinksh last eve.’ He waved inaccurately at the bottle which held enough to put four men with stronger heads than his under the table. ‘Help yourshelf.’
‘My thanks.’ Ned pulled up a stool but didn’t touch the wine. He preferred to drink ale in the day, and in any case, he had yet to find a wet nurse for Raymond Herevi’s new brother.
Raymond noticed Ned’s abstemiousness at once and pounced on him with the missionary zeal of a drunk who cannot bear to see a companion sober. ‘Why aren’t you drinking, Fletscher?’ he demanded, his tongue tripping over almost all the words. ‘Don’t you want to shelebrate my new brother’s birthday?’ Temptingly, he waggled the wine under Ned’s nose. ‘Washamatter, Sergeant? Don’t you want to shelebrate the birth of my father’s legitimate heir? If I can shelebrate it, surely you can?’
Wine sloshed from the mouth of the bottle, pooling like blood on the table. Firmly removing the vessel from Raymond’s uncoordinated grasp, Ned set it to one side. ‘No thank you, Master Raymond.’ He must somehow get Raymond out of here and take him home. And he had that wet nurse to find. ‘Master Raymond–’
‘You can go to hell, Fletscher, if you’ve come to root me out of here. Didn’t my father give you an errand to run?’
‘Aye. I’ve to find a wet nurse for your brother.’
‘A wet nurse for the heir, naturally. I can fend for myself.’
Ned was not about to argue with Raymond. When drunk, he was impossible. ‘I know that, Master Raymond,’ he said, mildly. ‘But your father needs you...’ He broke off, recalling with dismay that Raymond had ridden off without being informed of his mother’s untimely death. He struggled to keep his features from betraying the evil news. He could not tell Raymond now, not here, when he was in this state. But how otherwise to convince Raymond he must go home? Ned was Raymond’s senior by three years, but his position as a hireling negated any advantage he might wrest from his superior age.
Raymond missed Ned’s fleeting change of expression. His finely-cut mouth twisted. ‘Father needs me? Like hell he does. My father has a new son to play with. Hey! Boy! Get me a fresh bottle, will you?’
Coming reluctantly to the conclusion that only strong-arm tactics would work, Ned countermanded Raymond’s order. ‘No, Tristan. Forget the wine,’ he said, firmly. ‘We’re leaving.’ And before Raymond could muster an objection, Ned stood up, hooked an arm through one of Raymond’s and heaved him upright. ‘Come on, Master Raymond. It’s time we headed for La Rue Richemont and the road to Kermaria.’
Ruthlessly, Ned hauled Raymond towards the sun-bleached street. In the tussle, he failed to notice the strings of the young man’s purse had caught on a nail protruding from his bench. The ties resisted the pressure and then snapped, and Raymond’s purse fell like a ripe peach into the rushes.
The cloaked figure stirred, a furtive eye blinked. A hood flopped forwards, obscuring shifty features, and out of sight beneath the worn cloak, long fingers were flexed. There was a rattling, chesty cough, and a heartbeat later the purse was gone.
Hoping that his charge would not get violent, Ned steered Raymond inexorably towards his horse. Feebly, the young man tried to shake him off, but to Ned’s relief he had drunk too much to be effective. ‘Do you think you can ride, Master Raymond?’
Raymond scowled, the street was waving up and down like the Small Sea. ‘Of course I can ride,’ he said, staggering, but when Ned steadied him he flung off his arm. ‘I can always ride. I may not be able to walk, but I can always ride.’
Ned responded with a smile and watched him climb groggily into his saddle.
Raymond belched. ‘Who in blazes do you think you are, Fletcher? What gives you the right to lord it over me and fetch me home like a runaway serf with my tail between my legs?’
Raymond’s tone had sobered considerably, and Ned risked a grin. ‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on you, Master Raymond.’
Raymond struggled into an upright position and took stock of his surroundings. ‘We used to live near here, Ned.’ He stabbed finger at La Rue de la Monnaie. ‘Down there. I liked it better when we lived there.’
‘Did you, Master Raymond?’ Ned kept his face as blank as he could, and mounted. The urchin held out a dirty hand and grinned hopefully.
‘Master Raymond!’ Tristan was loping towards them.
Raymond slewed round in the saddle, clutching his pommel for balance.
‘Master Raymond, one of my customers found your purse.’
Raymond reached for it, swaying, and weighed his purse in his palm to make sure it wasn’t any lighter. He didn’t have much and he wanted to keep it.
Tristan hovered. ‘Excuse me, sir?’ Realising he would not get much sense out of Raymond, the potboy turned to Ned. ‘I...I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying inside, about the wet nurse.’
‘Go on,’ Ned said. ‘Have you someone in mind?’
Tristan seemed to pick his words. ‘Aye. I don’t know her personally, sir, but I’m told there’s a young maid been delivered of a stillborn child. Would...would you like to meet her?’
Ned leaned on his saddle horn. ‘Where does she live?’
‘Live?’ The question seemed to discompose Tristan, who lifted a vague hand and said, ‘Oh, nearby.’
‘She could be here soon?’
‘If I send someone to fetch her, she’ll be here in a flash.’
‘The work’s outside the town,’ Ned told him. ‘Won’t her husband object to her living in Kermaria for a few months?’
‘Husband?’ Tristan went red and shuffled big feet. ‘She doesn’t have a husband, sir. Does that matter?’
It did not matter as far as Ned was concerned, but he couldn’t vouch for St Clair’s reaction. Then he remembered that the knight had not always been married to Lady Yolande. He shot a sideways look at Raymond and said, ‘Matter? No of course not. As long the wench is healthy and her milk is good.’
Tristan hesitated, thinking of the money he’d been offered by the maid’s brother for getting the girl honest work. ‘I’m no expert, sir,’ Tristan said, the thought of the coins inspiring him, ‘but I should think that if the maid has not got her own babe to feed, her milk will be the richer.’
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Ned swung down from the saddle.
‘What’s up, Fletcher?’ Raymond asked.
Ned grinned. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to have that drink with you after all, Master Raymond.’
Raymond’s brain felt as though it was stuffed with clouds, but he rolled off his horse and showed his teeth. ‘Good. I’ll finish that bottle of wine I bespoke earlier.’
With a wry smile Ned flung the horses’ reins at the confused urchin. ‘You’ve to work for your coin today, my lad.’
In the tavern, Tristan was exchanging words with the man who, despite the warmth of the day, was drowned in that unseasonal wool cloak.
On the counter, a wasp wound a wavering path through a pool of spilled mead. Spotting the insect, Tristan took a grey rag from his belt and flicked it aside. The insect spiralled to the floor. Not two feet from where the wasp landed, tucked out of the way behind an upturned barrel, a pedlar’s tray sat on the beaten earth. It was half full of tawdry ribbons and sticky sweetmeats. The wasp, scenting a heaven of sweet delight, staggered like a toper, rose uncertainly into the air and landed amid the sweetmeats. Some ants had beaten the wasp to it, but the wasp was full of mead and not inclined to fight them off; there was enough on the tray to satisfy every wasp in his nest, and the ants too.
The fellow in the mantle, the owner of the tray, left the inn. The decrepit hound cocked a ragged grey ear, whined, and trailed faithfully after him. Having taken the unprecedented step of handing in a purse which rattled with coins, the pedlar had his sister to find; and that being done, he had information to sell. He had a buyer all lined up, for Conan the pedlar had no doubt that a certain French count would pay handsomely to learn what he had overheard in Mikael Brasher’s tavern. Add to that the likely reward for having taken the initiative in installing his sister at Kermaria...