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of the famous Earl of Locksley. Sir Alan, this is my nephew Sir Benedict Malet, who loyally serves me,’ said the lord of Falaise.
    We stared at each other for a few moments, but the tension was seeping away. I was honour-bound to be courteous to de Burgh, and doubtless I would be thrown into company with this rude nephew often enough, too. I gave him a stiff bow of greeting.
    ‘He’s a knight? Why, he looks as if he’s been sleeping in a pig-pen for a week!’ said this spotty lard-arse.
    ‘Benedict, where are your manners? Sir Alan might be a sell-sword but he is a member of our household. Tell him you are sorry and that will be the end of it.’
    The ill-mannered lordling said nothing, just stared at me with contempt.
    ‘Benedict. You will apologise to Sir Alan this instant!’ Hubert de Burgh’s voice cracked like a whip.
    ‘Apologies,’ muttered Benedict, dropping his head, a black forelock falling over his eyes.
    I nodded curtly but said nothing; Kit and I moved away, past Benedict, down the spiral stairs and out of their sight.
    I met up with Little John in the vast courtyard of Falaise Castle towards dusk, after Kit and I had found our quarters in the East Tower and made ourselves as comfortable as we could in the spartan circular room there. The Wolves had been assigned space in the wooden barracks that lined the southern wall, and they were taking a meal of tripe soup and bread at a long table in the big hall in the middle of the courtyard when I joined them.
    John was in a cheerful mood. ‘We have landed on our feet here, Alan,’ he told me with a genial slap across my shoulders. ‘Good food, dry lodgings and nothing to do but a few patrols from time to time to make sure the Bretons don’t try to sneak across the border and bugger our beautiful Norman sheep.’
    ‘You find this post to your liking, then?’ I said a little sourly.
    ‘Do you not?’ he replied. ‘What ails you? You look like a kicked dog.’
    ‘Perhaps you are right. A foul-mannered knight called me a cur earlier today.’
    ‘You didn’t kill him, did you?’ said John, scratching his groin. ‘There are rules about not fighting among ourselves. Robin’s orders. Who was he anyway?’
    ‘He calls himself Sir Benedict Malet – he’s Lord de Burgh’s nephew. And yes, I refrained from killing him, this time.’
    ‘No point sulking over it. I’ve heard of this Malet fellow. One of the castle sergeants mentioned him. Fat lad. He commands a
conroi
of the castle guards. Unsure of himself, or so they tell me. Doesn’t want to appear weak or inexperienced, though he is both. A big puppy – not dangerous, just incompetent. I’d forget all about him, Alan, if I were you. Have something to eat.’
    Kit and I helped ourselves to the thick soup from the cauldron hanging over the hearth, then sat back down with Little John and the men.
    ‘We’re going on patrol tomorrow at dawn,’ I told the Wolves. ‘Just a short ride to get the lie of the land. Back by mid-morning.’
    There were a few nods.
    ‘One more thing. The lord of this castle seems to think that as sell-swords we are less trustworthy than the other soldiers here, that we have less honour. He is wrong. And we will demonstrate to him that we are the equals of any man here in skill, loyalty, honour and discipline. You are not to get blind drunk or brawl with the other men-at-arms, or rape the local maidens, or go absent without leave, or misbehave in any way. Any lapses in discipline will result in severe punishment. I will not be shamed by you. Does everybody here understand me?’
    Murmurs of acknowledgement from the faces around the long table.
    ‘If I could just add a little something, Sir Alan,’ said Little John, his red face sober and deadly serious. ‘I will rip the dangling balls off any one of you sorry bastards who steps out of line. I will then cook ’em and feed ’em to you personally.’

Chapter Four
    We travelled south on patrol the next morning in the