Á Warwick, Á Warwick! – part two

by Dinasbran

Disclaimers: See part 1

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March 1469 – Warwick

“I don’t remember much after that until about a sennight later,” I smile teasingly at Alais, “Though I am sure my healer will be able to tell you how bad a patient I was.”

“It is no wonder you look changed,” Margaret gives the smallest of smiles, the tiniest of twitches to the corners of her mouth. “I knew that you were an archer, Hal, fought in those battles - I just had no idea…”

“I am thankful you didn’t, Meg,” I reply reassuringly then glance at the candles, seeing that they have burnt a good few inches during my telling. “Anyway, that is enough for this evening I think, those candles don’t grow on trees you know.”

We stand and Margaret gives me another hug, resting her head on my shoulder briefly before abruptly going though the door into her room. I look from the door to Alais, perplexed by the sudden, silent departure.

“I think she’s upset,” Alais comments quietly, answering my unspoken question.

I look at her in confusion, “Why, what did I do?”

“No, silly,” she wraps her arms around me and I gladly return the gesture. “She not upset at you, she’s upset for you. Hearing about that sort of thing happening to someone you brought up, someone you care for, is bound to be upsetting.

“Should I not have told it then?” I ask guiltily, “I thought she would want to know.”

“No, I think she does want to know; she’ll be fine on the morrow I’m sure.”

I look down into the golden eyes, seeing the way they reflect the light of the candles. “I love you, you do know that don’t you?”

“Of course, my little soldier,” she grins, her nose wrinkling adorably as she does so, “though it does no harm to remind me now and then.”

A hand leaves my back and moves to my neck. I need no prompting and lower my head to meet the soft lips. They part and a warm wet tongue runs over my lips requesting entry, which is gladly granted. As the kiss deepens and tongues dispute the amorous battleground of our mouths, I move my hands from my wife’s waist to her back and pull her closer. Feeling my desire building, I moan softly into the warm mouth that I am in the process of conquering - then freeze as I hear the faint sound of movement from the adjoining chamber. I break away, feeling suddenly, unexpectedly guilty and Alais stares at me in bafflement.

“I can’t,” I splutter, “Meg’s just next door, I just, I can’t,” I feel the treacherous blush rise and hope the light is dim enough to hide it.

She laughs good-humouredly, “Shall we take it upstairs then, my love?”

I grin, relieved that she is not upset by my unexpected reaction, “Good idea, sweetling.”

I wait for the sound of the door to our chamber opening then quickly pinch out the candles. Waiting for a moment for eyes to readjust to the dark, I follow her up the stairs to the sister-proof privacy of our chamber to take up where we had just left off but with no clothes to get in the way. I just hope Edith doesn’t wake.

* * *

I spend the next morning introducing Ned to probably the most unpleasant part of the fletcher’s craft – boiling down animal skins to make glue. If given the choice, I will always use the crushed bulb of the bluebell, poisonous as the resultant sticky paste is, but this is not always available and so hide glue is the alternative. I have all the shutters to the workshop open, allowing a good through draft but still the smell is pretty unpleasant and glancing up from where I am working I see Ned’s nose is wrinkled up in disgust as he stirs the pot. Smiling faintly at his reaction, very like my own, and no doubt every apprentice’s, when I first had to undertake the same task, I return to my own work. I shave down the shaft I am preparing a little further, carefully making sure that the bellying is even. These arrows are for one of the Earl’s huntsman and will carry heavy hunting heads and require a good strong shaft. The gentle swelling that reaches its widest point about two-thirds of the way towards the tip then narrows back down for the head itself will help balance the arrow and give it extra stripe, extra impact, when it hits its target. Putting down the small drawknife, I try the shaft for size in one of the holes bored through the arrow board. The size is about right now and the final smoothing and balancing should bring it down to a perfect fit. I replace the shaft in the v shaped slot, fitting it snug against the stop at the end and begin the final shaping, carefully shaving off only the smallest amount with each pass until, finally happy, I add it to the four others I have already prepared. Taking the next piece of split, vaguely square-sectioned wood I place it in the groove and start the final process in creating a shaft, the hardest part of the craft, once more.

A fit of coughing makes me look up and I smile at Ned’s self-inflicted distress. The glue has boiled over a little and the resulting smell is truly foul, even from where I am standing. “Let that be a lesson to you, Ned, not to take your eye off the pot.” He nods, grimaces again then adjusts the gluepot over the small brazier until it is over a slightly less hot spot. “Don’t let is cool too much,” I warn and he nods his understanding once more.

I am pleased to find Ned is turning out to be a fine apprentice, quick to learn and conscientious in his work. His only fault is that he is if anything too quiet and reserved, apparently unhappy in asking questions. I hope this is not because he fears me and that he will eventually feel able to ask.

Taking the moment to stretch my back, stiff from too long spend bent over, and rotate the shoulder tight from yesterday’s stupidity, I notice a familiar and distinctly unexpected figure coming in my direction. At over six foot, he is unusually tall, taller even that the king but whipcord lean. His reddish brown hair and hard cold eyes always make me think of a stoat and he is nearly as vicious. I had disliked him on sight and the feeling was mutual; the news of his new position was one of the very few things that had made me glad I was no longer a household soldier. Now Ralph Reddington looks every inch an Earl’s captain. The pleated, knee length red coat made of the finest wool, the ragged staff embroidered on the breast in white silk. The belt around his waist is fitted with gold, as is the scabbard that holds the blade made of finest Spanish steel. The blue velvet chaperon on his head trails elegantly over his right ear, the long liripipe thrown over his left shoulder to be tucked thorough the back of his belt. I have not seen him since the spear through my shoulder made me unable to continue as an archer and his unheralded arrival at my door seems to me to bode ill, causing the small cloud to settle on my heart once more.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” the familiar voice of a yet unseen presence hails Reddington and he pauses.

“Good day to you, Master Chandler. Visiting Master Sutton as well?”

“Aye,” the door of the workshop opens and Matt enters, the wicker-framed arrow-bag slung over one shoulder. After a cheerful greeting, he swings the bag around to drop to the floor. “You said to bring them along,” he prompts at my quizzical expression.

“Ah, yes,” I remember now, “I’ll get Ned to look at them later.” Reddington has also entered the shop and is rifling through the ready-made arrows I have to sell. He was never a professional archer, having been a man-at-arms before becoming captain, but like most men and many women, he can use a bow and examines the shafts with a practised eye, testing weight and balance. I now notice the annoyed glances he throws at Matt as he chatters on. Alais has often claimed that men are far worse gossips than woman, despite what they may say, and I have to agree with her.

“So your sister has arrived then,” he continues, oblivious to the evil eye he is receiving, “quite a woman I hear, and a widow?”

Matt is a widower himself and I give him a sharp look. He holds up his hands, chuckling, “Don’t worry, boy,” he calls me boy just to annoy me I am sure, even if I am some twenty-five years his junior and appear younger that my thirty years would warrant in a man, “I was just asking, haven’t any designs on her.“ He smiles, a twinkle in his eye, “I feel it only fair to warn you that you may have to look out for some of the other men. Not all of us old ones want a young wife to wear us out when a nice steady, well organised help-mate to run our home is what we really need.”

“Meg can look after herself, Matt, though I thank you for your concern.” I glance at the captain who has given up on the feigned interest in my wares and is now staring in obvious annoyance at Matt. He catches my eye and with a jerk of the head indicates that he wants the older man gone. I frown back at him. Although still officially retained by the Earl, I am not under Reddington’s command and find my temper beginning to rise at his attitude. Thankfully, my problem is solved when Matt adds. “Well, I better be off, Hal, candles don’t make themselves.” He gives the taller man a nod and a fare-you-well then the same to me and leaves.

“Old fool!” Reddington mutters.

I turn to stare at him, hackles rising at his contemptuous tone, “Old his is, fool he may be, but at least he has a civil tongue in his head.”

He glares at me. I glare at him. Though he has no official hold on me, I know antagonising him is not really sensible, but then I am not always sensible. I am surprised then when he backs down, albeit ungraciously.

“I apologise, Master Sutton, my comment was uncalled for,” I however hear the unspoken, ‘if true’, the tone of his reluctant apology implies.

I nod my acceptance but say no more - let him explain what has brought him here.

“May we speak somewhere privately?”

“Of course, follow me.” If he can be polite then so can I. I take him through the workshop’s backdoor into our garden then into the hall and thence the parlour. “We will not be overheard here.” I see his doubt but remain silent; I am still annoyed with the comments about Matt, even if he is an old fool.

“Very well,” he gives his reluctant acceptance, “it will be on your own head if it is not.”

I frown and am about to ask what he means by this when he continues.

“The Earl has a task he wishes you to undertake, Master Sutton.”

Puzzlement now overriding annoyance I ask, “What? I am no use as an archer anymore and I can’t see him sending a captain just to order some arrows.”

“I do not know the details,” his irritation at this is plain, “but in the next day or so you will receive a packet closed with the Earl’s personal seal.” He gives me a supercilious look, “I take it you can read?”

I scowl back, “Of course!” Any craftsman worth his salt is able to reckon and knows his letters; his question is a deliberate insult and I can feel my hands curling into fists - I may not strike my apprentices or anyone I am instructing but smug officious bastards are another matter altogether.

“The packet will instruct you as to what the Earl wishes. Once you have completed the task you are to report to him in person.”

I stare in bewilderment, “In person? But he is in Calais is he not?”

“Indeed he is. A nice little sea voyage for you took to look forward to.” He gives an evil grin, “Oh, but I forget, you suffer from the mal-de-la-mer do you not - so perhaps not such a nice voyage after all?”

As I fight back the growing anger and wonder why he is now deliberately baiting me, he looks around the parlour appraisingly. “A nice house you have here, Sutton, a nice little business and a nice little family even if the brats aren’t really yours.” I grit my teeth, fighting back the urge to punch him on the nose whilst wondering why he has changed the subject. “And now your sister has moved in I gather?” His face twists into a threatening sneer, “You will succeed in your task, whatever it should turn out to be. After all you wouldn’t want to lose all this would you, Sutton, house, business,” a nasty little pause, “family?”

I can’t believe he is actually threatening me, the astonishment abruptly deflating the growing anger. The Earl would never condone such an act and I tell him as much. The little smirk he gives in return makes my blood run unexpectedly cold. Without any further word, he leaves the room and heads for the front door. I follow him, wanting to make sure he does indeed go. As he is about to exit, he turns back to face me, looking down on me both physically and metaphorically. “You are to tell no-one of our conversation, those are the Earl’s orders.” I nod my reluctant understanding. He stares at me for a few heartbeats longer then adds mockingly, “They say that sparrows are game little creatures, I hope you protect your nest as well as your feathered brethren, little sparrow.” With a final parting smirk, he swiftly turns and strides away and I slam the door behind him, grateful to have him out of my home. I can feel the blood pounding in my ears as I lean my head against the door, fury at the patronizing use of the nickname warring with fear over the threats he has implied. The Earl I knew would never threaten his people like that. He has always been a fair man though firm - could he really have changed so much over the last few years? My head says no, my heart however is worried by what that knowing little smirk might herald.

* * *

I spend the rest of the afternoon brooding over what Reddington’s visit means and whether his hinted-at threat should be taken seriously. My anxiety spills over into my work and I spoil two shafts and snap angrily at Ned for not keeping the floor of the shop clean enough. I later apologise for my outburst but it will not have helped his reticence and I curse myself for taking my black mood out on the boy. I am just glad my wife has spent the day with Margaret rather than in the workshop. At supper, I try to behave normally but can see the looks from Alais that mean she knows something has upset me.

I now sit on the stool in the parlour exactly as I had the night before, only now I feel an ominous sense of dread rather than joy. I only realise how fiercely I am scowling when Alais asks.

“Are you going to tell us what has been gnawing at your vitals all afternoon or continue to try a bore a hole through the wall with that frown alone?”

I refocus onto her face, seeing the concern there but I can’t tell her what has happened - not until I have a better idea of what it is all about and how real the threats are. With an effort, I shake the gloom away and give a crooked grin, “My apologies, I do not mean to be such a kill-joy.”

“So, you are not going to tell me?”

I shake my head, “I am sorry, Alais, I cannot, not yet at least.”

“Why?” I can see she is upset, I can’t say I can really blame her.

“It is the Earl’s business.” This is at least true and I hope she will take it as explanation enough. Fortunately she does, at least on the surface - though I suspect she isn’t completely mollified. After a long stare that more that confirms my suspicions, she turns to Margaret.

“Can I ask you something, Meg?”

I am glad to see that Margaret has become Meg, it seems to confirm what I had hoped: that my wife and sister will become friends. I am however somewhat concerned by the glint in the amber eyes - it is the sort that usually bodes ill for me and I suspect I am about to be punished for my secret keeping.

“Of course, sister.”

I smile warmly at Margaret, silently thanking her for accepting my wife as one of the family with that one little word. I notice Alais is a little taken aback but rallies to ask her question.

“Hal tells me that she doesn’t know why she was brought up as a boy, other than it was your father’s wish - do you?”

I am surprised at the question, even a little shocked at it. Margaret is too, I can see it in her eyes. I have never asked it: never, in truth, wanted to know why he made that choice in case it revealed something I would regret knowing. But now Alais has asked it, I find I do want to know and when I see my sister’s questioning look I nod my agreement.

“Very well,” she pauses for a moment, eyes closed, apparently ordering her thoughts. Opening them, she gives a small heart-heavy sigh then turns to Alais. “You have no doubt noticed that both Hal and I are slim of hip?” Alais nods, flashing a wicked look at me out of the corner of her eye. I give a smug little smirk in return - I know exactly how aware she is of how slim my hips are - then return to concentrate on what my sister is saying. “Well that particular curse was also shared by our mother. My sisters’ births and mine had not been easy; I suspect it was only the fact that we were all early and therefore small that had allowed us to survive. Father had always wanted a son, as men do, but by the time mother had reached her fortieth year he had become accustomed to the fact this was not going to happen and, to give him his due, he did not blame mother for this as many men would. It was therefore a surprise to them both when mother found she was with child once more. As she swelled, it became obvious it was going to be a big child. Then the midwife told mother that she thought it was twins and that was when she became really worried. Birthing single children had been bad enough; she feared she would not be able to survive two. Father, of course, did not know of the midwife’s suspicions or mother’s fears, he was instead sure this was the son he had so long wished for.” Margaret paused again and I can see this is painful for her.

“You don’t have to,” I start to say but she cuts me off with a gesture.

“No, you should know and I need to tell it whilst I still can.” Another pause as she takes up the thread of her tale once more, “When the day came that mother’s waters broke it was as she and I had feared. The midwife’s suspicions were proved true when, after you had finally been delivered, it became apparent that there was a second child on its way. Poor mother was so exhausted after your birth that it was obvious to mother, midwife and myself that it was unlikely she would survive. Even whilst she struggled to deliver your sister, she asked for you. I,” Margaret falters, her voice sounding tight and Alais lays a comforting arm over her shoulder. My throat is full too and I blink back unexpected tears. “I laid you in her arms and she gave a little smile and kissed you on the forehead.” A tear escapes and runs down my cheek and I see matching ones on Margaret’s yet still she continues. “She said ‘my little Henrietta,’ gave you another kiss then handed you back to me. It wasn’t long after that she died; the midwife said the strain had just been too much, that her heart had not been strong enough. Your sister died with her. I named her Edith after the mother who had died trying to give her life.” Defiance appears in my sister’s voice now, “The priest didn’t know but she was buried with mother. I wasn’t going to let her lie in unhallowed ground just because the poor mite hadn’t the chance to live and tucked her in under mother’s shroud.” She wipes the tears from her face. “Father would not believe mother was dead to start with, kept calling us liars. Eventually we had to show him her body, still bloody from your birth. I think it broke his mind somehow; he picked you up and said, ‘My son’, I tried to correct him, told him you were to be called Henrietta. He must have heard me, at least partially, because he then said, ‘My son, Henry.’ Then he kissed you, placed you in the crib and left the room. I made the midwife swear on mother’s body that she would say nothing of this to anyone. I still assumed that father would come to his senses but didn’t want this strange fit made known to the rest of the village. The midwife, bless her soul, was as good as her word. I knew she was not happy with what father did, saw her disapproving glares at both you and he, but she kept her silence.”

I hear Alais sniff and see now that she too has wet eyes. Such deaths are all too common, indeed, I have lost all my other sisters the same way, but this tale of my own birth and mother’s death has affected me more than I would have expected. The news that I had a twin sister has also wrenched at me in a way I don’t rightly understand.

“Father never did really accept you were not his son, despite the truth of the matter,” Margaret finishes the tale. Then unexpectedly she chuckles as she wipes away more tears.

“What?” I ask in a still choked voice.

“I was just remembering when you first realised you were not like the other boys.”

I don’t remember and admit as much, Alais, of course, insists that Margaret should tell us. Seeing the twinkle that has come into my sister’s still damp eye, I get the feeling I am going to regret the telling of this particular tale.

“You were about five I think, old enough to be in hose and doublet and out playing with the other boys. That afternoon you came in with such a look on your face, a mixture of fear and anger, that I asked you what was the matter. You said,” she chuckles again, “You said ‘has my pisser been cut off?’” Alais snorts back a laugh and Margaret chuckles again. I, of course, can feel the bodily indication of my mortification appearing once more. “Of course, I asked what you meant and you said that you must not have a pisser like the other boys because it had been cut off like the man with no hand.” She glanced at Alais to explain, “The miller had lost his hand a few years previous,” then continues the tale, “So I had to explain that, no, it had not been cut off, that you had been born like that but that you were not to tell anybody because they might get very, very angry at you.” Margaret gives a regretful little half smile, “I seem to remember telling you that sort of thing a lot until you were old enough to really understand.”

I smile wryly as embarrassment turns into a rueful appreciation of the ludicrous logic of my infant self. Then I teasingly add, “Well they were lessons very effectively taught, dear sister - I still can’t use the chamber pot when Alais is in the room without the feeling that tiny demons are going to appear and stick their red hot pitchforks into my bare arse.”

Alais snorts again, looking at me in amused disbelief - no dainty ladylike expressions of humour for my wife and I briefly wonder how the ladies of the household would have reacted to her had the spear not lost me the captaincy I had been promised. Still, John had earned it more than me and I am thankful never to have gone through the worry as to whether dear Alais would be considered a breath of fresh air or a bucket of cold water. Indeed, even if I believed that there was a snowball’s chance in a furnace of it happening, I would not want her to change. Even as I contemplate her endearing lack of social refinement, she turns to Margaret in amazement, “Is that truly what you said?”

My sister blushes a little then nods, “Yes, I admit it is; but you have to understand that I had to make sure she wouldn’t be found out even as a small child, so right from the start I drilled into her that she must always do her business were no-one else could see her.”

Overwhelmed by sudden, soul-deep gratitude, I move to kneel in front of Margaret. Taking her hands in mine, I look up into the still tear stained face. “Thank you, sister, for telling me what happened, for raising me, even, “ I give a crooked smile, “for the pitchforks.”

A brief chuckle then she wraps her arms around me and now weeps in earnest and I feel the tears soaking through doublet and shirt. Over her shoulder, I look into Alais’ sympathetic and slightly guilty eyes. A small nod in answer to my unspoken request and she quietly climbs the stair to our chamber.

I kneel there, holding Margaret until she hiccups a few times then breaks the tight hold she has on me.

“Thank you, little bro…” a faint pause then she finishes, “little sister.” She smiles weakly, “That sounds so strange.”

“Not only to you,” I confirm, smiling a little myself.

I stand, wincing at the complaint from stiff knees, then help Margaret to her feet. “Are you going to be alright?”

A faint nod, then she gives me another hug. “I will be fine, don’t you worry.” A few inches shorter than me, she has to stand on tiptoes to place a kiss on my forehead. “Good night, Hal.”

“Good night, Meg.” I watch her enter her room then, after putting out the candles, go upstairs.

As I shut the door behind me and slide across the bolt that guarantees our privacy, a subdued voice asks, “Is she alright?”

“I think so.” A silence falls between us as I undo the points of my doublet then pull it and the attached hose off. In the darkness of our room, I move to sit on the edge of the bed, unusually weary. There is a faint movement in the mattress as Alais moves to sit behind me and a tentative hand touches my shoulder.

“I am sorry, Hal, I should not have asked, it was wrong of me.”

I nod my head, then realise it is too dark to see and add, “It was. Nevertheless, I am glad you did - I would probably never have asked myself. I am glad I know what happened, sad as it is.” I pull off my shirt then slip off my braies. Finally, I unwrap the linen strips that bind my still small breasts. I sit there, staring sightlessly into the darkness and oblivious to the cooling of my skin, as I think over what I have learnt. Another faint movement behind me and I feel Alais’ warm, full breasts press against my back as arms slip under my own, wrapping around to hold me tight. A chin rests on my shoulder and I feel her now unconfined silky hair trailing across my back and shoulder.

“Truly, I am sorry.”

The murmur of Alais’ apology brushes against my cheek and I turn in her grip, wrapping my arms around her as I am seized by a desperate need for simple comfort. “Just hold me, please,” I whisper, and she does, pillowing my head on her breast, gentle fingers stroking my hair as I cry myself to sleep.

* * *

I wake with a pounding head, sore eyes and a stuffy nose to remind me on the previous evening’s emotions. At some point in the night, I have left my comfortable pillow and now lie on my side. Alais is curled up behind me, arm around my waist, her breath tickling the bare skin of my shoulder. I feel her shift slightly then roll away from me. Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling just visible in the dim pre-dawn light. My sister’s tale from the night before runs through my head once more. I had always been a little wary of my father; for most of the time, he was strict yet kind, even loving, but every now and then, he would appear to be looking at things no-one else could see and his blank gaze had scared me as a child and unnerved me as an adult. Now those looks seem to make more sense. I sigh deeply, trying to let out the heavy feeling on my chest. Further stirring and an irritated muttering from my right indicates that the sigh was a little too loud. I glance across as Alias sits up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, then turns to look down on me. I sigh again.

“You sound like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“I was just thinking.”

“About your mother?”

“And father. His moods make more sense now. I wish I’d had the courage to ask before he died, perhaps then I could have known him better.”

The cold morning air is cooling my upper body where Alais’ movement has pulled sheet and blankets away; I pull them back up under my chin before turning onto my side, meaning to get the last of my sleep before the full dawn arrives. I expect Alais to do the same and am surprised when she stays sitting up, propped on one arm. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that she is still looking down at me, a thoughtful, slightly sad expression on her face.

“You know, I don’t think I have ever really considered what you have had to do to live as you do.” A small smile tugs the corner of your lips, “I’d wondered why you always seemed so uneasy when using the pot when you are quite,” a twinkle appears in her eyes, “uninhibited about most other things.”

I give up on the sleep. My wife wants to talk and so I know there will be no rest until she has her say. I have long ago realised she is not easily put off no matter how determinately I feign sleep. I sigh again, this time with exaggerated weariness and receive a poke in the ribs for my pains.

“Don’t sigh like that, Hal, I am trying to understand you.”

“I don’t need understanding,” I grumble. I am tempted to pull the bedclothes over my head. I do. There is moments silence then the sheet and blankets are pulled off me in one determined heave. Sitting up, I try to pull them back but Alais has them bundled up in her arms. At least the effort in trying to get them back is stopping me getting cold. Grasping her wrists, I easily pull her interlocked hands apart.

“By our Lady, Hal, I forget sometimes how strong you are,” Alais mutters, rubbing her wrists as I spread the reclaimed bedding over me once more.

“That’s what pulling a bow does to you.” I mutter. I glance at Alais and see she is now pouting. Cutely. I roll my eyes at the use of her most frequently deployed and devastatingly effective weapon. “Don’t do that, Alais,” I complain in weary exasperation. With no let up on the assault, and knowing that I am not going to get back to sleep now anyway, I reluctantly concede her the victory. “Alright then, what do you want to know to ‘understand’ me?” The expression on her face unexpectedly changes from one of wilful determination to thoughtful wonder. Reaching out an unusually tentative hand, she runs the tips of her fingers over the hard muscles of my shoulders and chest, both made broad by a lifetime drawing a bow. “So strong,” she whispers. A solitary finger tenderly traces the three-inch scar in the hollow of my left shoulder and my skin begins to get goose bumps at the gently arousing ministrations. Continuing her exploration she pulls down the bedding and her palm runs over my left breast, “and yet so soft.” Those simple words in the so familiar phrase suddenly transport me back fourteen years to the first time she said them.

June 1455 – some miles to the north of St Albans

I sit, propped up against the bedstead, and stare with a mixture of fascination and revulsion as the last of the fat pale wriggling maggots are plucked off the now pinkly healthy flesh of my wounded leg.

“It looks like father was right, no sign of the rottenness now.”

I nod at the words but still my flesh crawls. It has taken all my self-control not to rip off the bandages and remove the horrible white things. The first time I had become aware of the strange tickling coming from the covered wound it had only been Alais’ quick hand that had stopped me scratching them into pulpy, maggoty, oblivion. It was a good thing that I was still so weak at the time because as soon as she had explained what the feeling was I had gone into complete, mindless panic - trying to wrench the bandage away and get the revolting things out before they ate my whole leg. It was also fortunate that I was at least partially dressed in shirt and braies, as she’d finally had to call on her father to help restrain me. Once I’d exhausted the little energy I had with my frantic struggles, the older man had explained, calmly and patiently, how the maggots were helping, that they were eating the rotten flesh that was poisoning my leg and wouldn’t eat the rest of it. He’d pulled up his sleeve and shown the great gouged scar in his forearm, explaining how the little things had saved his arm when it had started going bad. How he had then got the old woman that had helped him to explain how he would know which were the right ones to use and how to use them and how he had saved many a comrade with that knowledge. I had accepted his reassurance warily, still worried that they would get a taste for the rest of me. I had also realised why he hadn’t been hostile on finding me hiding on his farm. Later, I found out that he had actually been one of those men that had fought at Azincourt. Since then I had been in awe of the older man; here, after all, was one of the archers that had defeated the might of the French nobility, humbling them with yew and ash.

With a new bandage neatly applied, Alais moves up to sit beside me. We have been sharing the large bed since I was carried all but senseless out of the byre. Her aggrieved younger brother was still sulking about being relegated to a palliasse in the hall – having been uprooted out of the relevant comfort of the small second chamber he and his sister shared by my unexpected arrival. It is a distinctly unusual arrangement - after all, I am to all intents and purposes an unknown young man. My secret-keeper had apparently explained off the arrangement as making it easier to tend me, especially during the worst of the ague; it also helps explain why I remain partially clad even in bed.

“Now you just need to rest for a while longer then we can start getting you moving again. God willing you should be back to normal in a month or so.”

I nod then add, “I am just glad to be rid of my little wriggly companions.”

We sit there side by side for a while; briefly, I wonder if she has not other things she would be better doing rather than staying with me but I have grown to like her company and say nothing. Still weak from my wounds and the accompanying sickness I find myself slipping into sleep when there is a slight movement by my side as Alais moves closer. Now her shoulder is touching mine and I can feel her warmth through the worn linen of my shirt, finding it both comforting and unsettling. Her head, a few inches lower than mine, moves to rest against my shoulder and she lets out a small sigh that seems full of regret.

“What is the matter?” I ask as, for reasons I do not fully understand, I let my head rest against hers.

“Once your leg is better you will go and I will never see you again.” There is a definite sadness to her voice and I find that I will miss her as well, more that I had expected.

“I have to return home, you know that.”

“Why, you could stay here, help father. He likes you.”

I shake my head regretfully, “He likes who he thinks I am.”

Silence falls once more and we sit there companionably. My eyes close and I now begin to consider what to do once I am fully well. Should I return to Lord Sudeley’s service, it is what I should do but he is an old man, his only son sickly? Should I perhaps take Grey’s advice and see if I can be accepted into the Earl’s household? Would they even consider me, an ex-enemy? That would certainly provide a chance for a better life, the Earl is said to be generous to his retainers and household men. During the periods when not needed for military duty perhaps I could resume my apprenticeship in someway. After all, every man-at-arms or archer has another role to play, be it groom or servant or one of the other myriad jobs a household needed to run smoothly and in an Earl’s household there would be more opportunities than in a Baron’s.

My musing is interrupted by a tentative touch to my bare leg. It is not the firm but gentle touch that I have become used to receiving as I have been nursed, this has an altogether different and distinctly unsettling quality. The touch becomes more confident and the hand trails up my leg until it reaches the edge of my braies. Then the fingers slip underneath.

My eyes shoot open. “Alais, what are you doing?” I ask in shock, unnerved by the way by body is reacting to the contact, my blood is pounding loud in my ears and a strange feeling, almost like fear, has appeared in the pit of my stomach.

The hand is abruptly snatched away; I am relieved and disappointed at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” she stammers, “I just… I’ll go.”

As she starts to move, I grab an arm. “No, please don’t.” She could easily break my hold if she wants, I am still as weak as a newborn kit, but she doesn’t and after a moments pause resumes her previous position, head resting against my shoulder. I release the grip on her wrist but, with a mind of its own, my hand moves down to hold hers. Intertwining her fingers with my own, I can feel the roughness of the calluses on her palm, the dryness of skin that has spent too long in cold water. Mine must feel even rougher to her.

“Father and Jack have gone to the market; they won’t be back until near nightfall.”

I nod, not at all sure why she is telling me this.

“We are all alone.”

I frown, now beginning to have a suspicion. I know well enough how young are produced. Nor am I innocent of what goes on between men and women. Despite what the church may say about it being a sacred act only to be performed under the sacred bond of matrimony for the production of children there seems to be a healthy if impious interest in the activity for reasons of pleasure only. My sisters had become inordinately fascinated in such things as a certain age was reached. Between the giggling and whispering, I had learnt enough to know what should and should not be done. When I had caught the eye of one of the girls in the village, I was therefore able to prove my ‘manhood’ by a suitable rewarding if somewhat awkward fumble in the hay without my secret being discovered. Indeed the poor, disillusioned girl had confided that she liked me more than the other boys because I wasn’t constantly trying to tup her.

I had been surprised to find I had actually enjoyed the experience as well - I had really only agreed to it in order to prevent any suspicion that I was not like the other boys. We had even repeated it a few times and I had become very fond of Mary. However, the pleasure brought guilt in its wake as the words of the Church on unnatural relationships like the sodomites haunted me. Was I damning my soul with such acts, even more so when I got pleasure from them? I had eventually concluded that if I was not already damned for fourteen years worth of deception over my true sex then it was unlikely such a small additional sin would cause divine wrath. The fact that the Lord also appeared un-interested in those that indulged themselves, often hypocritically, outside of the marital bed also helped ease my conscience. Indeed even the eyes of man seemed to be averted from such acts, only when some unfortunate found herself with child outside of wedlock was the displeasure made known. Even then, it was more often than not resolved by a hasty marriage and the resultant child proclaimed a fruit of the marital bed.

Nevertheless, Mary had been attracted to me as the boy she thought I was - Alais knew otherwise so why would she be interested in me like that?

“I am a girl, Alais,” it seems strange saying the words aloud, words that I have never spoken before.

A slight chuckle comes from the region of my shoulder, “I had noticed that, Hal.”

“I do not understand. Why would you desire another girl?”

Alais moves, shuffling around so she is sitting against my leg, her own tucked up underneath her. Now facing me, she studies me for what seems an eternity as I feel the tightness in my chest growing, the feeling in my gut has been joined by a clenching in my loins and I now recognise it as desire not fear. I am entranced by her, be-spelled.

“And you do not?” she finally asks, a twinkle in her eye, “I have seen the way you look at me when you think I cannot see.”

I blush slightly, realising that I have indeed spent quite some time intently studying her; the beautiful face with its soft lips and sparkling eyes, the way the kirtle shows her neck and shoulders, the gentle swell of breasts and hips. Often, when the pain from my leg has kept me from sleep, I have just lain there gazing intently at her sleeping form. My heart starting and skipping like a spring lamb at the beauty I see there - a beauty that was given an almost ethereal quality by the faint light of the clear night sky as it crept through the window left unshuttered in the summer heat. Now, my heart no longer gambols, instead it mimics the frantic antics of an unbroken horse and I am sure it will escape my chest if I remain under the appraising gaze of those laughing eyes for much longer.

In a barely audible whisper that sends shivers down my spine, she adds, “The way you are staring at me now.”

“No, yes, but…” I stammer, guilty over both feelings and actions. Blushing the more as words fail me, I gesture hopelessly at my male clothing. Brought up as a boy I must have somehow developed the same desires as a boy - it is the only explanation I can find for the way I have been thinking about her, the way I am now feeling. If it is unnatural to feel like this, I reason, then my unnatural upbringing must have caused it.

She giggles, the sound unexpectedly girlish. “By our Lady, Hal, that blush is so cute.”

I blush even harder and she giggles even more. Eventually both giggles and blush fade and now I find I am pinned by golden eyes that now seem to be searching my very soul.

Abruptly the gaze is broken as Alais turns away to stare out of the window over the surrounding farmland. Watching her profile, I see a slight frown appear.

“In answer to your question, Hal, I don’t know why I should desire another girl,” she shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed, “in fact I have never really desired anyone before be they girl or boy.” There is a small pause and she turns back to look at me, confusion now in her eyes. “Would it really be so wrong?”

“The Church…”

“A lot of frustrated old men.” The response is immediate and distinctly irritated.

I snort out a laugh, the outrageousness of the comment breaking through the haze of my desire. “Alais, you can’t say things like that about men of God, it is blasphemous.”

She smiles wickedly, “You should hear what father says about them then, he is not over fond of the Church. It isn’t that he is not a God fearing man, he just doesn’t like the men who claim to represent Him.”

I shake my head slightly; although I have often doubted what the Church teaches it has always been inside my head never out loud. Alais and her approach to life has me alternating between admiration and disapproval, her whole attitude is new and unexpected and more than a little unsettling. My sisters do not have the freedom she appears to enjoy, not even Margaret who all but runs father’s house as well as that of her husband. A few days earlier, I had asked Alais why her father seemed to bow to her instructions so readily. She had answered that he valued competence above propriety and so in those matters, such as healing, where she was the best, her word carried. Then she had tried to explain her father’s approach to life; how it wasn’t who we were born or how we are made that makes a person but what we do. I had never heard of such an idea; indeed, it strikes at the very core of everything I have been taught to believe. Her frankness scares me as well; here she is cloistered within the boundaries of the farm, protected by her father against those that would deny her the freedom she had come to expect and I am worried what will happen to her when that protection is removed.

“What are you thinking?”

Her quiet, almost pensive question interrupts my thoughts and I give a crooked grin that I hope is reassuring. “I was thinking that I have never met anyone like you before.”

Alais gives a faint smile at my words then scoots up the bed a little further, “And I have never met anyone like you either, Hal, so we are equal.” Her face moves to hover just in front of mine. Our eyes meet and my heart starts up once more on its attempts to unseat its unwanted rider. She is so close that I can feel her breath, smell the sweetness of it, as she utters two small words.

“Kiss me.”

I need no further invitation and lean forward to capture her lips with mine. It is not like the sloppy kisses with Mary, this is tender and warm and gentle. I am surprised when I feel the need to do more and something prompts me to touch Alais’ lips with my tongue. There is a moment’s hesitation then the lips part and her tongue meets mine. As they tentatively tangle, Alais moves her hands to my head, running her fingers through my short cut hair. My own have moved to her waist - self-protection reasserting itself enough to prompt me into holding her off my wounded leg. Pulling away when the need for air becomes too much, and feeling more than a little dazed by what is happening, I smile happily. “That was nice.”

“Nice!” Alais pouts in mock irritation – at least I hope it is mock, “It was wonderful!”

We grin at each other like guilty children. As the grins fade, Alais meets my eyes once more. “Can that really be wrong?” The question is tentative, and there is a hint of pleading in her voice. Mutely, I shake my head, but in my mind I am still not convinced even if my heart tells me she is right. Keeping her eyes fixed to mine she moves her hands to the edge of my shirt. I see the question in her look and after a heartbeats hesitation, somewhere between terrified and ecstatic, give my permission. I expect only her hands to go under the shirt so am surprised when she instead lifts it. Automatically, I raise my arms and it is removed and tossed to lie at the foot of the bed. The wild horse has gone to be replaced by a fluttering trapped bird, and I begin to feel an increasing anxiety as her exploring hands run over the already strong muscles of my arms then up to my shoulders. “So strong,” she whispers, in a tone that sounds almost reverential in my pounding ears. Her hands continue up to my face and fingers trace my lips, “and yet so soft.” My head is spinning - her behaviour is now so forward it is confusing and scaring me; my body desperately wants to accept but my mind is shouting frantically that only a wanton woman would behave like this. All I have been told about how a proper woman should act tells me that it is just not right for her to be so brazen; even poor deluded Mary had only dropped hints, albeit non too subtle, and left me to take the lead.

The exploring hands have slid languorously down over neck and shoulder and are now resting on my chest. My desire is still there, I can feel the heat of her hands like a fiery trail across my skin, but disquiet increasingly has the upper hand. A finger hooks the bindings I have had to wear as my breasts have grown and gives a frustrated tug. “We need to be rid of this,” Alais mutters under her breath, more to herself than to me. Gripped by sudden overwhelming panic, I pull the intrusive hands away and scramble as far away as the bed allows. Grabbing my shirt, I pull it back on, instinctively covering myself once more. An oft-repeated phrase beats through my head, ‘I must not be seen naked’, ‘I must not be seen naked.’ I sit at the end of the bed, hugging my uninjured leg up to my chest; badly shaken by what nearly happened, I bury my head in my arms, trying to make myself as small as possible. ‘I must not be seen naked’. The words reverberate as the blood pounds in my ears once more, caused now by fear and not desire. I sit hunched up, willing my breathing to slow as I fight to get the fright and panic under control.

“I thought…”

The distress in Alais’ voice is plain to hear even through my agitation and I lift my eyes to meet hers, feeling a jolt of guilt at the unhappiness I see there. Before I can say anything, she slips off the bed and runs out of the chamber. Thankful to be alone and thus able to get my skittering thoughts and emotions under some semblance of control, yet already missing her presence, I pull myself back to the centre of the bed. Lying there, painfully aware of the steady throb in my leg that the sudden movement started up and the receding effects of Alais’ touch, I try to make sense of both her actions and my reactions.

1469 Warwick

The painful tweaking of a nipple brings me back to the present with a yelp.

“Am I boring you, husband dearest?” Alais asks with a distinctly displeased look on her face.

Rubbing the abused portion of my body, I glare up at her. “That was uncalled for.”

She humpfs, folding her arms and glaring petulantly back, “And going off into a world of your own whilst I try to make love to you isn’t reason enough?” A further exchange of glares that soon soften, “What were you thinking of?” then she giggles, “Please don’t say it was your parents, not then!”

“No,” I too smile at the thought then continue, “Your words just made me think of the first time I heard you say them.” Seeing her puzzled frown, I explain, “Surely you remember - it was just after you had removed my little wriggly friends then followed up by removing my shirt.”

I see the understanding dawn on her face then she gives a rueful chuckle. “I thought you would never speak to me again. You looked so scared and upset.”

“Well you were being a terrible little wanton,” I tease, “What did you expect a well brought up, God fearing boy to do?”

Alais eyes narrow but I can still see the twinkle and, before she can do or say anything, I quickly sit up; grabbing her wrists, I flip her onto her back so that I am now kneeling over her, weight partially supported on hands still loosely holding her wrists. Shifting slightly, I move my knee between her legs and she opens them invitingly. Looking down into the slightly flushed face, I see a multitude of emotions - desire, frustration, need and love. Her golden eyes lock with my blue ones, demanding what I am more than willing to provide but, for the moment at least, I do not move. She glares at me, I smirk back, she pouts, my resistance crumbles. Finally moving my thigh up against her womanhood, I lower my head, and we kiss, deeply and passionately. I feel her begin to move against my leg and the answering heat in my own loins as my passion rises with hers, the growing slickness against my thigh and increasing urgency of the movements only adding to my arousal. Breaking the kiss I manage another smirk, “Yes, definitely a wanton.” My voice is husky with my own need and she growls in answer, though I am not sure whether it is in annoyance or frustration, and frees one hand from my lax grasp. Not letting up on her own movements, or the faint, sweet grunts that show me her increasing pleasure, my wife promptly shows me exactly how wanton she can be.

* * *

I am explaining to Ned how to use steam to revitalise the fletchings on the arrows Matt has left with me when Agnes comes through to say there is a man asking for me at the front door. Leaving my apprentice with a parting warning not to burn his hands or leave the arrows too long in the steam and melt the glue, I follow her back towards the house. Wiping my hands dry on my hose as I enter the house, I move through into the hall where my visitor is waiting. In the small walk from the workshop, Reddington’s words have come back into my mind and I wonder if this is the packet I was told to expect.

Entering the hall, I find a man I do not recognise, nor is he wearing livery; however, his garb suggests he is messenger. Along with the leather bag he has slung over one shoulder, he is armed with a good quality but plain bastard sword, his clothes are dusty and travel stained and he is clad in thigh length riding boots. He also has that anonymous look so often cultivated by those that carry the most sensitive and important documents. The rowels of his spurs jingle slightly as he moves a couple of steps to meet me.

“Master Sutton?”

I nod.

He pulls around the bag and opens it, pulling out a flat leather pouch about six inches by four. It is wrapped with a number of cords with lumps of wax wherever they cross. A large seal is prominently visible in the pouches centre. He holds it out and for a moment, I want to leave, to refuse to take it, the ominous feeling back in full force.

“Take it.”

The slightly annoyed instruction snaps through my hesitation and I obey. I look up from confirming it is indeed the Earl’s seal to see the messenger looking at me with a puzzled look in his hazel eyes. “You were expecting it, were you not?”

I nod, then realise I haven’t said a word yet. “Yes, Captain Reddington told me to expect its arrival.” I am about to ask if he knows anything about it when he nods curtly and starts to leave.

“Wait!” I remember my manners now, “Will you not have a drink or some food, or at least some water to wash the dust of the ride off your face?”

He pauses, turning back to face me, his face lightening at the courtesy, albeit belated. “I thank you, Master Sutton, but I have instructions to go on to the castle immediately after seeing you." A brief nod as I open the door for him, and a parting, “God be with you, Master Sutton,” then he swings himself easily up onto the waiting horse. Tossing down a coin to the boy who had been holding it, he turns the sweat-streaked bay in the direction of the castle and is soon out of sight.

I look down at the packet in my hands. The sense of doom has gone, replaced by an increasing curiosity as to what it is the Earl wants me to do and a rekindling of the sense of adventure I thought I had lost. I take it up into our private chamber and, sitting on the edge of the bed, first check that the seal is intact. Satisfied that it has not been tampered with I break the wax roundel and open the pouch. Inside there is another slightly smaller pouch and a number of documents. Leaving the second pouch for the moment, I examine the documents. One is a letter and I recognise the Earl’s own signature, which surprises me in itself - normally such orders will come via one of his household officers not the Earl himself. The other documents appear to be a rough map of the north of the country and a number of what appear to be passes of some kind. I turn to the letter and start to read.

* * *

I have read the letter twice now and still can’t believe what the Earl is instructing. I have killed men before, either in battle or otherwise defending my life or the lives of others, but this is completely different and my stomach tightens at the thought of it. I read the letter once more, desperately hoping that by some miracle what I have read the previous two times has changed but it is still as before. The Earl’s logic in choosing me is flawless - to a point; he takes as gospel that I will obey his instructions loyally whatever my personal feeling in the matter and if what he has detailed is true then he would not be far wrong in his assumption.

Standing, I move to the window and stare unseeingly down onto the street below as my mind whirls with what I have just learnt - what I would not even consider possible if it was not the Earl himself that had detailed my friend’s treachery. I shake my head, I still cannot believe it, not of him - I can think of no man that is more loyal to both his Lord and his King. Now the Earl wants me to use my friendship to get him into a position where I can kill him in such a way as not to raise any suspicion then leave the smaller pouch containing proof of his iniquity on his body.

I move back to the bed and pick up the pouch in question. It is sealed in much the same way as the other but this time the design of the impression in the central seal is not one I recognise. The letter instructs me to leave it unopened and for the moment, I do. Picking up the map next, I study it. I am instructed to travel to Hexham where I shall find the friend I am ordered to kill. The town is not unknown to me, indeed one of the Earl’s brothers, Lord Montagu, had defeated the followers of the misguided King Henry there some years previously. I, however, have not been there and study the way, making rough calculations as to the probable numbers of day’s journey and the equipment and amount of coin I will need.

“I can’t do this,” I mutter abruptly, the reality of what I am being asked finally striking home. Then Captain Reddington’s threats come back to me, they suddenly seem more real, more likely. After all, if I disobey the Earl’s order would that not make me a traitor to him as well and what would his revenge be after all he has gifted me? I smile grimly, certain that Reddington would love the chance to inflict such a punishment on me. Reluctantly I realise I have little choice but to comply with my instructions, for the moment at least, and just hope some way out of my predicament becomes apparent.

I put the documents back in the pouch then wonder where to hide them so Alais or Margaret will not find them. My sister, I am sure, would not look. My wife, however, is another question. I might otherwise adore her pick-and-choose adherence to society’s conventions, especially in private, but sometimes it can be distinctly troublesome. Eventually I tuck it in the bottom of the chest that holds my jack and well oiled but now little used armour, falchion and buckler. After a moment’s thought, I take out the latter two and the velvet covered brigandine before shutting the chest, putting them on the lid to check later. First, I need to go up to the castle to arrange horses and provisions for my journey as instructed in the letter.

Moving to another chest, I remove my best coat - made of dark green finest broadcloth, it is fully pleated and reaches to my knees. Pausing, I look at the now revealed neatly folded livery coat I had almost forgotten was there. For the first time I find I am not looking at the red jacket with longing, the embroidered white ragged staff no longer filling me with pride. Instead, I feel tainted by what my enforced loyalty is making me undertake and angry with my lord for putting me in such a position. Shaking off the disturbing thoughts, I next take out a black leather belt with silver fittings, matching belt pouch and a rondel dagger. I glance down briefly at my hose, they are not my best pair but decide both they and my ankle high boots will do, after all the patch in one knee isn’t that obvious. After struggling into the coat, the weight and amount of wool making it slightly unmanageable I do up the paired buttons then buckle the belt over the top. Finally, I slide the ornate, pearl studded, silver plated rondel dagger through the belt behind the pouch, the black leather scabbard with its fine silver wirework and silver chape is as ornate as the hilt. The dagger is one of the few pieces of overtly wealthy items I own - I have always eschewed flamboyance, having realised early on that anonymity would help best in keeping my secret. Both sister and wife will of course complain that I was just born draggletailed, but they miss the point – if I was truly as disreputable as they so often claim that would also make me noticeable, I just do not advertise either my presence or my relative wealth. The style of dagger also has the advantage of marking me out as a soldier, the triangular cross-sectioned blade designed to punch through mail and armour being of little use for more day-to-day activities. I feel more comfortable with this outward sign of my previous profession for the visit to the castle where many of the men will now be strangers to me and the coat will indicate I am a man of some substance.

Returning to the workshop in order to retrieve my hat I am greeted by Alais with the mock stern complaint, “Some master we have here, Ned, goes off and leaves his apprentices all by themselves for hours on end.” I am surprised to see Ned give a furtive smile in return which soon disappears when I look at him directly; once his face has returned to a suitable respectful mien I give him a brief wink, grinning briefly at the look of surprise in his eyes before turning to face my wife.

“So who was our visitor, Hal, you seemed to be with him for some time.” I see the amused look fade as I do not answer and she takes in how I am dressed. “Why the finery?”

I take my hat and brush off the slight covering of wood dust, making it more presentable, then place it on my head.

“Hal?”

“I am going to the castle, I won’t be long.” With that I leave, not wanting to hear the further questions that will no doubt follow and that I cannot answer. I stride swiftly away, angered by the way I am being forced to keep secrets from my wife as well as the threat we have all apparently been placed under. With the extra impetuous of my anger, it isn’t long before I am approaching the castle’s gatehouse. As I approach the shaded archway, I feel a strange jolt, as if I have done this before as a remarkably familiar figure hails me.

August 1455 Warwick

I approach the gateway warily - still not sure I will be welcomed. I see no hostile move as I get closer and silently chide myself - after all, they are hardly going to remember one insignificant young archer. I straighten my back, gripping the bow in its bag more firmly and advance upon the two men standing watch at the gate. There is only the faintest of twinges from my leg and I force myself to walk without the slight limp that is now more habit than due to any real discomfort. I am thinking of how I can best approach my reason for being there when one of the guards unexpectedly greets me.

“Well, if it isn’t the little hedge sparrow, you got back to your nest in one piece then?”

“Master Grey?” and indeed I now see one of the guard’s is indeed the man who pulled me out of the hedge and tended my wound. He doesn’t seem to loom quite as large as he does in my memory. Nevertheless, he is still an impressive looking man, somewhat taller than me and solidly built.

He removes the sallet he wears to run his hand through sweat-dampened hair that is as brown as his eyes, the first signs of grey just visible at his temples. “In the flesh, little sparrow.” He settles the helmet back on his head then gives me a questioning look. “So you still hanker after an archer’s life then?”

“Aye, Master Grey,” I feel my courage growing, and give a small grin, “I thought I’d take up your offer, if it still stands.”

The older man chuckles, “It still stands - Sudeley’s always had a reputation for picking good men. The watch should change soon so if you wait I’ll take you to the captain of archers once I am done here.”

I nod my agreement and settle down on the ground just to the side of the archway. Automatically I give my healed leg a brief rub.

“Still hurting?” Grey asks, mild concern in his voice.

“Not really, a small twinge now and then but it is easing day by day.”

“You found somewhere to heal up then?”

I nod, unable to stop a small self-satisfied smile at the memory.

“Did my little sparrow find himself a cushy little nest, with a hen to tend him perhaps?” he teases, chuckling once again.

I feel the blush start up in my neck and curse my perfidious body for betraying me so readily.

“Aha!” he cries in triumph, “You surely are a lucky one, Hal, first you get rescued by a fine fellow like myself who sees you safely on your way then you find yourself a nice woman to tend your wounds,” he smirks, then gives a chuckle that boards on a snigger. “No doubt she tended to your other needs as well, a handsome young lad like you.” He sighs, mournfully, “Ah, if only I were young again,”

“And unmarried,” the other guard speaks for the first time, “your wife would never give you any rest if she found you were tended by any woman other than the most toothless of old crones.”

Grey glances at his fellow guard then chuckles ruefully, “Aye, true enough.”

“So what was her name then, boy,” the other guard asks.

“Alais.” I feel the blush rising higher and both guards laugh at my misery.

“Damn me, boy, that is one mighty fine blush you have there. I bet Alais liked it.”

“She does,” I admit.

“Does?” Grey asks in mock horror, “Does? Don’t tell me my fine cock sparrow has been netted by his little hen?”

I nod once more, “We are betrothed, once I can support her we will marry.” I only become aware of my inane, love struck grin when the other guard sighs dramatically.

“Ah, young love!” Then he makes a lewd and extremely expressive gesture that has the two older men laughing as I get even redder.

The sound of men approaching down the gate-passage thankfully saves me from further good-natured tormenting. As Grey and his companion straighten up, three men similarly dressed in white-badged red coats arrive.

Once the watch has been changed and the two men have reported what they have seen – which other than my arrival turns out to be very little - I am escorted through the archway and into the bailey beyond.

To be continued in part three…