Thomas sat with his belongings at his feet, head drooped nearly to his knees. He had been thrown out of Sir Josce's small army. Sir Garas said to anyone with the audacity to question him that it was because Thomas had swived his daughter last midsummer and left her big with child; Thomas denied the charge saying he had no idea Sir Garas even had a daughter.

'And anyway, how should anyone know one maid from another? There are too damn many,' Estienne grumbled, as he helped Thomas lug his things out of the camp. ‘Like flies to honeypots. I’d appreciate an explanation as to the attractiveness of war camps and filthy, boorish men. But tell me it isn’t true, Thomas.’

‘It isn’t. I’ve taken neither maid nor man to bed.’

‘Want to know what I’ve done, when nobody’s looking?’ Estienne threw a sly look over his shoulder. ‘I could tell some tales…’

‘Keep them to yourself!’

‘At least I know I will be your first!’ Estienne laughed. ‘Oh, fair Thomas, don’t look like that! I will be the gentlest master, and you will be the most eager student.’

‘I doubt that, and I’ll thank you for one thing only: keep your hands off me.’

They weren't taking Josce's belongings with them; these now belonged to Sir Garas, though Thomas had filched what he could. What he knew wouldn't be missed. The ivory hilt of a fine bronze knife now peeked over the cuff of his left boot, and a linen pouch of saffron nestled against his chest under his shirt, a crocus stain already forming as he sweated through the spice.

He lifted his head and smiled grimly at Estienne. 'If you don't know one maid from another, then how do you know you didn't get that fat toad's daughter with child?'

'She'd have squealed to her father, and I'd be bereft of two good bollocks,' said Estienne with a wicked laugh. 'And besides, with parents that ugly...' he left the sentence hanging and went to fish in his saddle bag for some bread and cheese. ‘I like pretty maids, Tom. Pretty maids, and pretty young men.’

Heat prickled across Thomas’ scalp and stuck his hair to the nape of his neck. ‘Debaucher,’ he said, without any real conviction.

Estienne only laughed. ‘I debauch nobody. I think the word you want is –‘

‘Shut up,’ Thomas said wearily. ‘Just….shut up, Estienne.’

Sir Garas had ordered Thomas out of camp by sunset, and that was still two hours off. No sense in hurrying.

Although Thomas wished they could be into the hills before sunset. Thomas knew there were bound to be Lord Hart’s archers hiding in the valley thickets. The man was a wood-elf to the core. The scraggly, thorny woods would be crawling with his men.

'Mind you,' said Estienne, returning with his hands full of food, 'they're all the same where it matters.'

'Wood elves?' asked Thomas, puzzled.

'What? No, girls, Tom! Although now you mention it, a fey lad might be a novelty.'

‘I thought you are one?’

‘Not…quite,’ Estienne said, with that infuriating air of mystery that Thomas was becoming accustomed to.

'Hah. And I thought you'd given them up now you've found me.'

It was a dull jest, for Thomas had stuck by his earlier warning that Estienne should not come near him with carnal intentions. He stuffed a heel of old, hard bread in his mouth and followed it with a good swig of warm, bitter beer, chewing furiously.

Five miles from the castle, towards the hills, they turned in the direction of a hamlet under Hart's fiefdom. Dusk had fallen and stars glittered in a clear velvet sky. The scent of salt and blood was more prominent here, and Thomas shuddered. He was beginning to recognise the scent: fey.

But there was an inn here, and in his bruised and weary state, he found it preferable to a night in the heather.

In the inn, Estienne turned his pouch out onto the bar.

'Three silver pieces,' he sighed. 'The lot of a penniless man is to always be penniless. How much for a room?'

'With two beds,' added Thomas.

'Three silver pieces,' said the landlord. He gave them a lazy smile. 'Of course, I'll throw in a good meal of venison stew, and all the ale you want.'

'Very generous,' said Thomas scathingly. 'Keep your ale. If it's your intention to get us drunk then rob us blind, you're out of luck. Three silver pennies is all we have.’

The landlord shrugged. His pale eyes glimmered in the lamplight as they raked him over yet again. 'Where are you from?'

Estienne reached for the coins. 'That's our business,' he said. 'Where's the room? Or we can go elsewhere.'

'Nah, nah, don't be hasty. I was merely curious. Strange folk abroad these days - can't be too careful.'

'I'm all for careful,' retorted Thomas. His arm itched under the bandage, and he could feel the edges of his temper fraying. Tired, and in pain, all he wanted was hot food, and sleep. He looked at Estienne, only marginally better dressed then he. He wished he'd taken Sir Josce's fine fur cloak after all, never mind that Sir Garas would set hounds howling at his heels for it.

He followed Estienne and the landlord up the steep stone steps at the back of the inn and stood swaying on the threshold of a small room fragrant with rue and meadowsweet. Blinking in the faint light, he saw that the floor was covered with rush matting into which these herbs had been woven, releasing their sweet scents whenever they were trodden on. Estienne was arguing furiously with the landlord, negotiating a cheaper price, for the room, though clean, was small and cold. No hangings covered the narrow window, and no shutters either and a chilly night wind gusted in.

And there was only one bed.

'Shall I leave the light?' Estienne asked as they wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and the thin blankets on the bed. A small clay oil lamp guttered in the breeze, flickering shadows up the bare limewashed walls like dancing ghouls on the night of the Autumn Equinox.

'Leave the light,' said Thomas. His lids drooped; sleep would come fast.

'My thoughts also,' said Estienne. He shifted in his blanket, his thigh long and hard against Thomas. 'There is one thing though. Where are you from?'

Thomas stiffened, his heart suddenly gone still, then beating furiously. But what did you think? Someone would ask, sooner or later.

'I didn't think it was any secret,' he said, as nonchalantly as he could. 'I thought you knew?'

'No, not me, Tom. I know you're from a good family, before you came to Sir Josce. But who they are or where they're from, I don't know.'

'I was taken by Sir Josce when I was five, to repay a debt,' said Thomas. 'That much, most people know, I think. What they don't know, is that debt was paid when I turned ten years old. But another was made, and unpaid, and Sir Josce kept me as hostage. My own father refused to take me back, or pay my ransom, or settle his debt to Sir Josce, and so...well, now you know.'

There was a moment of silence while Estienne digested this. Then he sat up, his knees drawn up under his chin and his deep brown hair, black in the gloom, ruffled where it had lain on his pillow, giving him a slightly comic, rakish look.

He frowned. 'Why?'

'Pure and simple, I'm a threat. My mother died in the first year of my time with Sir Josce, and he married again. The new wife, so I understand, demanded that her own first born son inherit my lands, not me. Since I was far away, a hostage, my father agreed, thinking I need never come back, and indeed wasn't likely to, from what he'd heard of Sir Josce.'

He fell silent, remembering the day they'd told him his mother was dead, and he wasn't to return home. It had been thirteen years since he'd seen his lands in the North; he wasn't sure if home was the right term for it anymore.

'That's harsh,' said Estienne softly. 'Harsher than I'd thought. I'm sorry, Tom.'

Thomas sighed and turned to the wall, his back to Estienne. 'I'll get my due,' he said grimly. 'I'll return there as Lord, or not at all.'

‘Then I will help you.’ Estienne flung himself onto his back and stared at the rafters, swept clean of webs. ‘I will take you to Lord Hart and…’

‘Is Lord Hart not in his castle?’ Thomas asked sharply, suddenly alert. ‘Estienne…we’ve travelled several miles beyond the castle! Where is Lord Hart?’

‘In his own domain, of course. Where else? What, did you think he would sit like a rotting melon atop the midden of Sir Josce’s siege? W ood-elves are cannier than that, my lad.’

Thomas gritted his teeth. ‘Tell me where, blaggard, or I shall go not one step further with you!’

He could feel Estienne’s grin in the darkness. ‘You shall see,’ was all he said, and Thomas let his curiosity win out over his threat.