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always thought Fransitart had been the gunner—in charge of all the cannon and their right firing.
    “Aye”—Fransitart nodded gravely—“I’ve come to claim me debt.”
    Tugging on the bristles beneath his lower lip, Craumpalin gave the tailor a knowing wink and flashed an almost threatening grin. “Lookee, Frans,” he said softly, “he still knows us!”
    Meesius the tailor went even paler. “A-after all these years . . . ?”
    “Aye.” Master Fransitart was as quietly menacing as Rossamünd had ever known him to be. “But I wants it in harness. Bring us yer best travelin’ wear for this ’ere lad.”
    There was an awkward pause.
    Rossamünd was bemused that his two masters could be such overbearing rogues.
    With nervous sweat on his brow, the tailor hesitated.
    Craumpalin folded his arms and glowered. Fransitart remained perfectly still.
    Meesius cleared his throat. “W-well.” He gestured to Rossamund impatiently. “Come over here so I can get thy measurements.”
    Rossamünd looked at his masters, and Fransitart gave the subtlest nod. The boy went over to the tailor, leaving Fransitart and Craumpalin by the vats.
    “Lift thy arm!” Meesius growled under his breath. With a leather tape he measured Rossamünd’s neck and arms and even the girth of his chest with many rough proddings.
    “. . . I daren’t keep him back any longer.” Master Fransitart’s voice carried softly across the vat-room floor.
    “Ye dare not. And anyway, the lad is desperate to get on.”
    “Aye, Pin, aye.” The dormitory master sounded resigned and strangely sad. “Well at least ’e’ll be stoutly protected.”
    At this both of the old men went quiet.
    Meesius disappeared for a time, then returned with a sour look, bearing two pieces of high-quality proofing. The first was a fine proofed vest with fancy silk facings and linings called a weskit. The second piece was a sturdy, well-gaulded coat—called a jackcoat—made of subtle silken threads of shifting blues. It came in at the waist and flared out to the knees. Rossamünd was stunned at its beauty.
    The dormitory master told him to put on both the weskit and the jackcoat. “Ye might as well start getting accustomed to their weight,” he said.
    They were a little too big for Rossamünd and heavier than normal clothes, but combined with his recently washed black, long-legged shorts—or longshanks—he looked very fine indeed and could be sure he was well protected for his long journey. All he needed now was a sturdy hat.
    “Yer debt is cleared, Meesius,” Fransitart said, low and serious. “I ’ope we will never ’ave th’ need to meet again!”
    Without another word the tailor hurried off into the shadows beneath the vats. Rossamünd and his masters returned the way they had come. Fransitart looked very satisfied with himself as they wrestled and veered through the jostling throng on their way home.
    “Ye’ve got yerself a stout set of proofing there, lad. A fine harness, indeed.” The dormitory master’s smug grin broadened. “Ye’ll be well safe in it.”
    Craumpalin chuckled. “Masterfully done, Frans, masterfully done. Ol’ Cap’n Slot would ’ave been impressed.”
    Rossamünd had no idea what just happened. He had never seen Fransitart so satisfied, so pleased—but he was too astounded at his grand new proofing to give any of it another thought.
     
    Verline mended his two shirts and even his smallclothes. She darned several pairs of especially long stockings—called trews—which he was to wear doubled back down from the knee for improved protection. Two scarves and two pairs of gloves were provided against the coming cold of winter. She also gave to him his own turnery (a fork and a spoon made of wood), a biggin (a leather-covered wooden cup with a fastening lid), a mess kid (a small wooden pail from which to eat his meals) and a flint and steel for the lighting of fires.

    From the larder Rossamünd was allowed to put into his satchel a