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chance to try out the ladies sitting at the higher tables. Those ladies are after rank.'
    'They wed rank. I said nothing about wedding.'
    They all laughed.
    'So you're not hungering for the life of a soldier?' Gaspare asked.
    The question was like a blow, but Owen chose to ignore it. 'How are the new recruits?'
    'Soft as always,' Bertold growled.
    Lief, a huge man from the North Country, frowned at a reed he was hollowing out. Owen looked at Lief's large, thick fingers and was newly amazed at the delica cy with which the man used them. 'They come along a bit slower than when you had the training of them. No Welsh fairy tales to inspire them.' Lief kept his eyes on his work, but Owen could see the smile beneath the red beard.
    Bertold handed Owen a tankard. 'You're looking in need of this.'
    Owen accepted it with thirsty gratitude and drained it in one gulp. His friends cheered and slapped him on the back.
    'So. You may talk fancy, but you still drink like one of us. Do you bring us good news?' Bertold asked in a more serious tone. 'I'd welcome you to take back this thankless burden. I never asked to be Captain of Archers.'
    'Sorry, old friend. I'm to leave on a mission to the North Country, and I'd a mind to see my old comrades before I started.'
    Lief blew into the reed, clearing out the dust, held it up to the firelight, squinted into it, then leaned close to Owen, lowering his voice. 'So what's Gaunt's business up north, then? Highlanders, is it?'
    'It's not for him,' Owen said. 'For the Lord Chan cellor and Archbishop of York.'
    Thoresby?' Gaspare sounded surprised.
    'Aye.'
    Bertold shook his head. 'Churchmen are queer ones to ferret out. How come you to be working for him?'
    'The old Duke recommended me to His Grace.'
    Ned studied him thoughtfully. The eye's no better?'
    Owen shook his head. 'Nor is it likely to be.'
    'You could still be Captain of Archers,' Bertold said quickly.
    'I haven't changed my mind about that. Nor will I.'
    Bertold shrugged.
    'I did also have news for any of his old mates about Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam. Do you know who they might be?'
    Bertold frowned. 'News about Fitzwilliam?'
    'Aye.'
    'What's the bastard got into now?' Lief snarled.
    'He's dead.'
    Ned leaned forward. 'Oh, aye? And who do we thank for that?'
    'I couldn't say. Camp fever. Bad case of it struck him down at St. Mary's Abbey in York.'
    'Pah.' Lief spat into the rushes at his feet. 'And when was he near a camp, I'd like to know?'
    'He'd seen no action?'
    Ned laughed. 'Depends on what kind you mean. He'd had his fill of hand-to-hand from sticking his nose where it wasn't wanted.'
    'A spy?'
    They all grew quiet.
    'I take no offence. I had little time for spies when I was one of you.'
    Bertold slapped him on the knee. 'You'll ever be one of us.'
    Owen held up his tankard. 'Then pour me another.'
    They proceeded to get bleary-eyed while they talked.
    'And so Fitzwilliam's dead, is he?' Ned said, coming back round to Owen's news.
    That's what I heard.'
    Lief spat again into the rushes. 'And good riddance.'
    'You had trouble with him?'
    'Trouble? Pah. Nothing he touched but didn't turn to trouble.'
    Ned kicked Lief's boot. 'Still sore over fair Alice?'
    'Hmpf. That whore. I'm better off without her. She would have knifed me in my sleep some night. The type.'
    Gaspare leaned over to Owen. 'Was going to marry her, see. Till he smelled that whore's son in her bed.'
    Lief got to his feet with a roar, making as if to smash Gaspare's head with his fist. Bertold pushed him back down on the bench.
    'Silly girl. She'd have been better off with Lief.'
    'Fitzwilliam married her?'
    'Married?' Bertold grinned. 'He's the ward of your new lord. But then you'd know that. Why would he be wanting to marry the likes of Alice, a kitchen maid?'
    'Ah.'
    'I've known worse than him.' Gaspare shrugged. 'But how'd you come to know him, Captain? He came after you'd gone up the table.'
    'I heard of him at Thoresby's table. As you say, His Grace's ward.'
    'What was he