'Where have you been, lad?'

Sir Josce was already up, in shirt and braies, munching on last night's hard cheese and wine. He gestured at Thomas. 'And put some damn clothes on! You might be a fine sight to some, but I'm not that bloody herald! Get dressed, before I beat you.'

'Yes sire.'

How did he know? Or was it just a lucky guess? Thomas donned his clothes, his cheeks burning, and wishing Estienne into the blackest pit of hell. He thought that perhaps he ought to go there himself and save anyone else the trouble of sending him. 'What of today, sire? Will you storm the walls?'

Sir Josce chewed ferociously, his brows knitted together in a silvery-black snarl of hair. 'Mayhap I will, boy, but not today. I will give Lord Hart another day's grace, methinks, and then hit him. Why do you care? You have other concerns. My maille needs oiling again.'

No it doesn't. If I oil it once more, as soon as you put it on it'll slip right off again.

Thomas tied his shirt cords. 'Yes, sire.'

'Good lad. And just to keep you out of trouble, I'll set Sir Edwin to practicing your sword skills with you.'

Thomas huffed, forgetting this time to keep anger from his face. 'Why Sir Edwin?'

'Because I have chosen Sir Edwin, boy,' said Josce belligerently. 'You'll have no objections to Sir Edwin, I am sure! Unless you gainsay me to be awkward?'

Thomas swallowed hard and said nothing. Sir Edwin had delivered more than a few sneaky blows to his flesh, just for the fun of it.

Sir Josce laughed, tucking his thumbs in his belt and grinning at Thomas. 'He knows if he touches you, he'll have me to answer to. Now. No more argument, or by God I'll whip your arse raw.'

Thomas bowed his head. 'Yes, sire,' he said, and this time when he spoke the emotion was gone from his voice. ‘Shall I go now?’

‘I’ve no use for you. May as well.’

Thomas bowed.

The day was already promising to be just as blistering as the day before and the last thing he wanted to do was spend it sweating in the practice ground, dodging Sir Edwin’s vicious, cheating sword. He thought a day spent in the cool of the willows by the riverbank would be much better. But Sir Josce had decided his fate for the day, and he had no chance of avoiding it.

But it wasn’t Sir Edwin who showed up to the practice arena. Thomas’ heart sank when he spied Estienne kneeling in the dust, a slender sword held aloft on his outstretched hand. A light wind stirred his beautiful hair and Thomas was annoyed to see only a slight glisten of sweat on his smooth brow. Thomas felt as though he could have watered a farm with the water the sun hammered out of him.

'I see staying away from me isn't going to be as easy as you thought,' grinned Estienne. He rose, pushed dark hair from his forehead and regarded Thomas with sparkling brown eyes. 'Don't worry. I'm not going to touch you where Sir Josce can see me.'

'You're not going to touch me at all,' retorted Thomas, and hefted his wooden practice blade.

Though they were not late into the morning, the air was too warm for comfort, and he could feel the sweat sliding along his spine like a lover's heated touch. A strand of gold hair flopped into his eyes, and he pushed it out impatiently.

Estienne's grin widened. 'So why don't you take that shirt off? It's offering you no protection, soaked as it is.'

Thomas glanced down. It was true. His thin linen shirt was soaked, not just from sweat but from the water he'd thrown over himself minutes before. It clung to the rounded contours of his leanly-muscled torso, and left little to the imagination, especially one as obviously well developed as Estienne's.

He saw heated admiration in the herald’s eyes.

And now Estienne's grin had turned to laughter. 'Tom,' he entreated, one hand extended. 'Put yourself out of your misery! It's too hot to be so coy.'

He shucked his own robe and held wide his arms, well-muscled, his sun-brown torso smooth and his stomach ridged with lean muscle. A strip of dark hair burned a trail from his navel downwards under his belt. His eyes narrowed at Thomas’ scrutiny, the dark depths gleaming with amusement.

'What do you know of my misery?' Thomas growled, the burn of desire mingling with the heat of the sun. He raised his blade. 'Are you here to teach me swordcraft or not?’

Estienne shrugged and lifted his own foil. They were using wooden ones, for Sir Josce said he wanted to lose neither knight nor squire to a practice blade. Bruises, he didn't mind. Broken bones were not a concern, as long as they could walk afterwards. He had no use for an invalid.

'You should be a knight,' said Estienne, no longer laughing. 'You're good enough. When will Josce release you and knight you?'

'He won't, and you know this.'

'Well, never mind that now. Stand and hold!'

Thomas yelped and stepped nimbly out of the way as Estienne lunged, catching the blow on the side of his blade and turning it. His wrist cracked and the yelp turned to a grimace of pain, followed up with a curse. In seconds, Estienne had dropped his foil and grasped Thomas' wrist, turning it gently and sucking his teeth in consternation.

Thomas snatched his arm away. 'Nothing an ointment of comfrey won't cure,' he said through his teeth. 'That was a coward's trick, you bastard.'

'And you'll always face brave and honest men?' Estienne sneered. 'Don't be a fool, Tom. Anyway, men don't call me Adder for nothing.'

'And I thought it was for your poisonous tongue!' White heat licked his wrist as he gripped his sword. He glanced down. A livid bruise was already forming. He drew a deep breath through his nose, his lips thin and pursed. He wished he had the chance to deal Estienne a thunderous whacking.

Perhaps he could do it right now. He raised his sword. ‘Again.’

'It's not broken,' said Estienne. 'At least I hope not. Sir Josce will have my hide if it is.'

'And mine also, for falling for your coward's trick,' said Thomas, but his voice lacked conviction. He let his foil clatter to the dusty ground, unable to hold it. 'I'll not be beaten. He'll leave me here, or turn me over to Lord Hart, if it's broken.'

Sir Josce would not keep a useless squire, even for a few days. Thomas knew well enough that he wouldn't be able to pitch or strike tents one-handed, nor carry maille and weapons, or fetch water, or firewood, or cook. He wouldn't be able to write either, since it was his right hand that was injured and not his left. He looked up at Lord Hart's castle walls, wondering whether Hart kept his prisoners in towers or in dungeons. He didn't fancy either.

He turned at Estienne's touch.

'I won't apologise,' said Estienne. 'I didn't cheat; you weren't fast enough for me, that is all. But I will take some of the trouble for you. Come. Let's get you salved and bound, before we face Sir Josce.' His eyes were kind, and if he offered no apology, then it was evident in his eyes.

Thomas nodded.

‘You can thank me later,’ Estienne added airily, and Thomas hated him again.

‘You are Lord Hart’s servant,’ he said. ‘Why do you keep coming here?’

‘Because I can, and because I want to.’

Thomas cradled his wrist as Estienne bent to pick up the dropped foil. The wind had got up, stirring the dust. Over the distant hills, the sky burned azure, but there was an odd taint of salt and blood in that golden wind.

An omen? Thomas squinted into the distance, and noticed that Estienne pulled himself straight, his smile gone and his eyes dark.

‘What is it?’ Thomas asked softly.

Estienne shrugged. ‘I do not know. Perhaps nothing. But I think…something. Keep your wits about you, fair Thomas. I don’t wish to hear of your death.’

That was ominous. A prickle of alarm chilled Thomas’ skin. ‘My death? Why should you hear of that?’

Another shrug. Estienne laid both foils across one broad shoulder. ‘I am stating my wish to have you live, come what may, nothing more. Come. I have an excellent ointment that I wish to use on you.’

‘I warn you that my wrist is all you’ll be using it on!’

‘Naturally. Where else? But hurry, for the longer we tarry the less time we have before your lord calls for you once more.’

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