Thomas sat, much later, in the relative cool of Sir Josce’s tent, scrubbing Sir Josce's saddle. The finely tooled leather tended to get sweat and muck congealed in the intricate designs, and it was a squire’s duty to scrub it out again. He sometimes thought that Sir Josce had ordered such a complicated pattern out of spite for the one who would clean it. Sir Josce liked looking for little ways to make his squire’s life difficult. Thomas liked not reacting to it. He often made a point of whistling happily to himself whenever he was engaged in such a task, if Sir Josce was around.

And when Sir Josce wasn’t around, certain saddles were often cleaned with piss.

Had I my due, then someone would be doing this for me, he snarled to himself. He dipped his brush in the pail of hot water and attacked the leather with vicious diligence. A good job would, even with Sir Josce’s fickle moods, earn him certain privileges of freedom. And somehow, through constant good jobs, he'd become his lord's favourite squire, so much so that two others had been sent home, no longer needed.

He looked up as Lord Hart’s herald came striding into the tent. Thomas was on his feet in an instant, his heart hammering in horrified panic, the scrubbing brush held before him like a shield.

‘What are you doing here? How did you get past the watch?’

The herald smirked. His dark hair was clean and soft, and his linen shirt open at the neck, displaying a smooth neck sheened with oil. He smelled of lemons and his smooth cheeks were pink, as though he’d recently scrubbed them.

Thomas sighed. It would be hours before he would have enough time to fetch a wash, and even then it would be only a dousing in the water barrels, or the river. Enough to get the dust and sweat off, nothing more. He pushed the sudden consciousness of his filthy state to the back of his mind. It didn’t matter usually. He was determined that it wouldn’t matter now.

He tossed his head up. ‘Speak or leave. I am occupied on my lord’s behalf and you are keeping me from my task.’

The herald put out a hand and leaned indolently against the stable door, one foot crossed rakishly over the other. Thomas was surprised to see he wore no livery at all, not even an embroidered crest on his collar. Which meant he was not here on official business. Not that Thomas could think of any official business that would warrant a direct message to a squire from a rival’s herald.

'Sir Josce calls for you, fair Thomas,' the herald said, his tone liltingly mocking as he spoke Thomas' name.

Thomas bristled. 'And he sent you to fetch me? Lord Hart’s herald, on an errand from my sire?’

The herald shrugged.

‘What does he want?' Thomas asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

'How should I know? I suppose he'll tell you when you get there! I'll say though, he didn't look in a good mood.'

Thomas rose, laying the half-clean saddle on its rack, and dusted himself off. 'Best that I go at once then. If you'll let me pass.'

'No hurry, Tom. No hurry. He can wait a little longer. I'm fascinated how much you've grown. So tall, and three years ago you were a mere scrap of a boy.' The herald gave a lazy smile, full of promise, one finger laid softly against Thomas' jaw. 'How old are you now, lad?'

Thomas slapped the hand away. ‘I don’t answer to you. I don’t care who you are, and I won’t…’

‘You don’t remember me?’

‘No, I do not.’

The herald shrugged, his gaze roving over the orderly tent, and then over Thomas himself. His nose wrinkled. ‘I remember you. Before you were taken hostage. I worked in your father’s house for a Spring. A servant, but a good and trusted one. My name is Estienne.’

‘Rings no bells. Now let me pass. Please.’

'Please?' Estienne laughed. 'Fine manners! I thought maybe Sir Josce had battered your airs and graces out of you, but maybe he was wrong. A blue-blooded squire, that's what he wanted. And maybe that's what I want, right now...'

'Lay one hand on me and I'll geld you!' Thomas snarled. 'Who are you?’

‘You really don’t remember me?’

‘I’d remember someone like you,’ Thomas snapped, and realised that sounded as if he thought this idiot someone worth remembering. The herald laughed. Thomas felt his cheeks grow hot. ‘Whatever your desires, you won't slake them on me! Now let me pass, or I'll tell Sir Josce it was you who delayed me!'

‘He’s in the council tent,’ said Estienne. He sighed and waved a hand. ‘You’d best get on there, then.’

Thomas shoved past him and stamped across the camp to the great council pavilion.