Albion baked in the August heat.

It had been like that for days; under the blistering sun, the tempers of every man, woman, child and animal in the camp, sprawling across the valley two miles from Lord Hart’s glittering castle, were thoroughly frayed.

Luckily, it sapped all energy and enthusiasm for war. Boiled it dry, in fact, though it had been simmering for weeks. Even the whores were bereft of anyone to do and had to content themselves with their real work, the laundry. 

A hot breeze ruffled the straw-gold hair of the young man waiting patiently at his lord's stirrup. He pushed a grubby finger under his collar to loosen it, grimacing at the sweaty stickiness on the back of his neck under the damp curls. It itched. He'd been waiting there for what seemed ages, his lord's voice droning on as he explained his refusal of an offered treaty to an equally bored herald. Thomas understood the refusal: worded in prose typical of Lord Hart's kind, the supposed 'treaty' took three full feet of scroll to say only: bugger off.

Lord Hart's herald had given up any pretence at attention and was leaning on his staff, staring dazedly at an ant's nest his boot had disturbed.

'Thomas!'

Sir Josce’s voice scythed through the young man's thoughts. The herald’s dark head jerked up as Thomas stirred, his comely face alight with the interest he’d shown when they’d first convened here.

Thomas looked away. The young man was a fool if he thought they would have anything to say to each other.

'Sire?'

'If you've finished napping, I'd like you to fetch a scroll from the pack. The one wrapped in blue silk.'

'Yes, sire.'

Flushing at the admonishment, Thomas stalked to the mule tethered a few feet away, under the shade, and yanked at the pack straps, his sweat-slicked palms greasing the cracked leather.

And why does the bloody mule get to stand in the shade, when I must stand in the full sun being blinded by that bastard’s armour? Armour that I polished? Armour too fine to sit upon that greasy sack of turds?

'Here, sire,' he said, handing up the scroll and retaking his place. The air stank of horse and male sweat. Flies swarmed in the dusty dung at the side of the baked road, and somewhere across the fields of gold barley, a dog barked. A lone buzzard circled in a cobalt sky, its high-pitched scream scything through the simmering hush over the camp. Tension dripped from every hot breath.

Sir Josce unwrapped the silk and rolled out the scroll, perusing it carefully.

Thomas bit back a groan. You've seen it a hundred times! You wrote it! Look, you idiot, give the bloody scroll to the bloody herald and let us go!

The scroll snapped shut once more and Sir Josce held it out with a curt nod, apparently satisfied with his own literary prowess. 'Thomas, give this, my detailed request for terms to his Lordship, Hart of Estragales, to his herald.'

'Yes, sire.'

'And then fetch my wineskin. I'm parched.'

The herald grinned at Thomas.

Gritting his teeth, Thomas performed the tasks without changing expression, for he'd learned the hard way that any expression of displeasure was followed by a beating.

'If you want to be grumpy, I'll give you something to be grumpy about!' That was his master's favourite. Sir Josce loved to beat his squires.

Thomas loved not giving him the opportunity.

He allowed himself a bleak smile as his back was turned to the lord. And then the smile faded at the memory of what had happened to one unfortunate boy, caught stealing cakes from the kitchen. Little Henry, barely eight summers old, had died from a wound gone sour, a result of Sir Josce's harsh punishment.

For naught but stealing cakes. Bastard. If I ever get the chance, I'll do for him!

'The wine, sire,' he said, handing up the wineskin. It would be warm, and taste of leather and spices, and he knew that the water from the stagnant pond nearby under the willows would probably be cooler, but he couldn't help but feel the lack as his tongue began to glue itself like sandpaper to the roof of his mouth.

The herald, having read the scroll's contents, let it snap back into a roll and shoved it into his belt.

'I will deliver this to my lord,' he said with a florid bow. 'Sir Josce.'

His dark eyes sparkled as he looked at Thomas. ‘Squire Thomas.’

He thumped the butt of his staff in the withered turf at his feet, signalling the close of the meeting.

Sir Josce's horse champed impatiently, beginning to dance, and the knight clicked his teeth impatiently. 'See that you do, and also tell him I require his answer within three days, or he'll be testing the strength of his walls sooner than he’d like.'

He gathered up his reins and hauled in the grey's head with a vicious jerk of his arm, and the horse stepped sideways with a startled snort, knocking Thomas aside and stepping neatly on his foot. He suppressed the cry of pain, for Sir Josce hated any show of weakness.

'Hurts, does it, boy? You don't know what true pain is! But I'll show you, hah! Drop your breeches.'

And not only would it hurt to walk, but it would hurt to sit too.

Thomas went and got the mule, scratched it gently behind its ears, and earned a butt from its head for his consideration. He pulled its ears. ‘Useless, ungrateful creature! You and I are the same, and don’t you forget it!’

'Goodbye, Squire Thomas!' The herald's merry voice fell like hot embers on Thomas' ears. A laugh like golden bells followed it. Thomas set his teeth and tried not to cringe against the mule's saddlebags, his face burning.

He waited until he heard the jingle of Lord Hart’s company moving away before he dared to turn around again.