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more firmly fleshed under his tan. They each had an eye crossed toward their nose, the father’s left one, the son’s right, making even their most solemn expressions amusing. Their plain, dun-colored, knee-length pilgrim tunics had seen other journeys, though not on them, Frevisse guessed, judging by the ill fit and the Stenbys’ awkward bows that told how unused they were to meeting strangers. They had probably never been more than a handful of miles from their village until now, and she wondered what vow or penance had set them on their way.
    “And Martyn Gravesend,” Lionel said.
    The last man took half a step forward and bowed. He was the man who had come to greet them on the road, and by his quiet garb of doubtlet and hose and riding boots he was a servant, so that Frevisse was disconcerted by the introduction. There had been no thought of introducing young John Naylor to anyone. “My steward,” Lionel said.
    Frevisse hoped she hid her reaction. But though Martyn Gravesend’s bow had been simply what it should have been, neither falsely humble nor overbold, simply assured and with no pretension to more than he was, the slightest quirk at one corner of his mouth as he stepped back from it told he was neither so grave as his name nor at all unused to Lionel’s impropriety and people’s reaction to it.
    Dame Claire and Frevisse made small, stiff movements of their heads to him, acknowledging the introduction as barely as they might. Father Henry hesitated to do even that much, and the moment was saved from further awkwardness by Mistress Knyvet asking, “You’ve walked far today?”
    “However many miles it’s been since dawn,” Dame Claire said. “And for two days before then.”
    The talk went around to where everyone had come from and where they were going, until a servant brought bread trenchers laid with cheese and cold meat and even a hard-boiled egg.
    “I hope this suits, my ladies, sir,” Mistress Knyvet said.
    “Very well,” Dame Claire assured her. “My deep thanks.” Frevisse and Father Henry echoed her while another servant poured wine for everyone.
    They were all seated now, except for Martyn Gravesend who stood a little behind Lionel’s left shoulder, where he should be but occasionally included by Lionel in the conversation.
    Now Dame Claire was saying to Lionel, “You’re kind to do so much for us. You were readying to leave when we came, I think?”
    “Thinking of it, no more,” Lionel lightly answered. “The day’s too fine to waste in haste.”
    “And it’s not so many miles to Minster Lovell that we need worry,” Mistress Knyvet added.
    “But weather is always a chancy thing, no matter what it looks like just now,” her husband said. “And night falls on even the most pleasant day.”
    “It would take a miracle to make rain fall from this clear of a sky,” Lionel said.
    Giles shrugged without answer to that. His wife held out the goblet they shared to him with a smile that was either commiseration or appeasement. Frevisse had already decided he was a tense-tempered man and wished Mistress Knyvet luck.
    Master Geffers began recalling a particularly rain-fouled journey he had once made to Gloucester town. Father Henry ventured an opinion that such good weather as at present meant the harvest might be good this year. The Stenby father and son quickly took up that thought, agreeing that they hoped so.
    The conversation lagged a little then, weather and travel having been covered with some degree of thoroughness but Dame Claire, Father Henry, and Frevisse were still finishing their meal so that no one could take the moment to suggest they should all be on their way. It was Mistress Knyvet who smiled and asked, “Martyn, have you any new riddles?”
    The steward smiled back. “I do, as it happens.”
    Lionel half-turned on his cushion to look up at him, his face alight with laughter. “You’ve been holding out on me? Unfair.”
    “If I emptied out all that’s in my