In the end, Thomas’ fretting over what Sir Josce would say was for nothing. The knight lay dead in his padded gambeson, stewing quietly in the heat with no sign of any wound. They’d gone further from the camp, towards the North woods, in search of comfrey. Estienne had reasoned that the woods were closer than camp. They weren’t, but Thomas had felt an odd reluctance to return to camp too soon.

He refused to admit it, but he was enjoying himself, despite the bruising.

Now, he felt desolate.

'Well at least we don't have to tell him you're useless,' Estienne said. He gave a tight smile, then shrugged. 'Perhaps that was the omen we smelled on the wind.’

Thomas’ arm throbbed, and he'd begun a headache as soon as they'd discovered Sir Josce's corpse, its back against an oak in the woods to the North. That alone was strange: Sir Josce had never had reason to go into the woods to the North. He pissed on his neighbour’s tent, sent Thomas looking for blackberries, and never so much as glanced at the woods.

Which meant he’d been lured, or dragged.

He rounded on Estienne. 'Tell me you know nothing about this!’

‘Fair Thomas, I would never jeopardise your position as a lowly, beaten squire, you know that.’

‘Fie! And what of the war? What of Lord Hart? We have no leader now...'

'You never had one in the first place. What, you think this uncouth sack of shit qualified as a leader? But if you’re looking for someone to tell you what to do, we have Sir Garas…’

'There is no we. And he’s as much use as a feather pickaxe.'

Thomas kept his fears about Lord Hart to himself as they wandered back to camp, taking pains not to hurry lest they betray their agitation. Somebody else could raise the alarm about Sir Josce’s absence, somebody else could go and discover his body. They would maintain ignorance and innocence. Estienne had decided this was best: Thomas didn’t think much of that idea and was still stewing over other options. Options that wouldn’t immediately turn him into the chief suspect.

‘Sooner or later it’s going to be considered odd if I do not know where he is and make no enquiries,’ Thomas said quietly. He sat down on a cushion, his eyes glued to Estienne as he raided the salve chest. His wrist ached and he wished they’d come back to camp immediately, rather than wasting time looking for comfrey in the forest.

He suspected that Estienne had set that up.

Estienne found the comfrey salve he wanted, applying it to Thomas’ bruised wrist liberally. ‘I am sorry for this. You bruise too easily, Tom.’

Thomas sat silently seething with Estienne, whom he strongly suspected wasn’t near as innocent as he was trying to look. Tension rolled off the herald, sharp and unsettling. Thomas could almost smell it.

Estienne unwound a roll of snowy linen bandage and began to wind it around Thomas' arm. 'Garas is cruel. If it were me, I'd think it better to take my chances with Hart than stay with Garas.’

He tied off the bandage and began hunting through Sir Josce's chest for something to use as a sling.

Thomas shifted, his back beginning to ache. He felt weary. ‘Then I’ll take that chance, but I need your help.’

‘Are you asking me to find you a place in that court?’

'I have nothing now but the clothes on my back. I need a place.’

‘Yes, you do. Before somebody blames either of us for the demise of Sir Shitsack up there in those woods. Come to Lord Hart, with me, Tom. You’ll be safe there.’

Thomas felt his knees go weak. He ran his good hand through his ruffled hair and stood patiently for Estienne to bind up his arm close to his chest. He could smell the other man, sweat and lavender and woodsmoke. Horse and honey and...

...he took Estienne’s kiss with a sigh of need, melting into softness against Estienne's shoulder with his arm crushed between them, before reality punched into his brain with a force that had him all but retching.

'Get away from me!' he rasped, low and furious, his palm splayed against Estienne's chest, keeping him at arm's length. He could feel the herald's heart pounding hard, in rhythm with his own. Blood pulsed through his veins, pooling where he did not want the sensation.

He swallowed hard.

'Never touch me again! Never.'

'I won't make that promise,' Estienne replied, his voice harsh and hoarse. 'And you don't mean it. I know you do not.'

Then the mocking laughter was back, the sparkling light of devilry dancing in his clear brown eyes. 'Pliant as a maid, you are, fair Thomas of Albion! Not that I want any maid now I've tasted you. Pack up your things; we’re leaving.’

Both started as the tent flap lifted, admitting Sir Garas. He glared belligerently around, brows knotted together with displeasure, his nose wrinkling. ‘Off swiving some maid, is he?’

Thomas bowed. ‘I do not know, my lord.’

‘Hmph.’ Garas looked at Estienne. ‘You’re Lord Hart’s servant.’

‘I’m his herald.’

‘Alone with a squire of the enemy?’ Sir Garas stepped closer, his bulky frame blocking the view of the door. ‘One would almost think you a spy. And consorting with squires, privy to intimate knowledge of their masters!’

‘I never thought of that,’ Estienne admitted. ‘That isn’t what I’m here for.’

‘Then what is?’

Laughter bubbled out of Estienne. ‘Josce has fine taste,’ he said, impertinently. ‘His wine, his food, his squire. I’m here to sample the lot. But if I pick up bits and pieces of information here and there, and deem them suitable for piquing my lord’s interest, should I really be expected to keep them to myself?’