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courtyard and bellowed for his grooms. Carefully climbing down – he knew too many people who’d been caught by a temperamental toss of the horse’s head as
they dismounted – he passed the reins to the groom and strode indoors, finding his son talking to the messenger.
    ‘Father! A tournament!’ The boy was obviously excited.
    ‘I know, I know. Yes, you’ll be coming too.’
    ‘Thank you, Father. I won’t let you down.’
    ‘You’d better not,’ Sir John said curtly. Squire William, his son, was seventeen years old. Strong of limb, fair-haired and with the blue eyes of a Saxon, his boy had grown
into a handsome man who was ready to take the last honour of manhood now he was of an age.
    The trouble was, his head was filled with trumpets and glory now he had returned from his first battle at Boroughbridge, where the King’s men destroyed the forces of his rebellious uncle,
Thomas of Lancaster. William had served well in combat, and had taken his own prisoners, making some money, but not enough to replace the horse he had ridden and which had died. The nag he had
taken from those captured was on its last legs, too.
    More expense, Sir John groaned inwardly. For now his son could make do, borrowing Pomers. Squire William had no idea what risks Sir John ran on his behalf !

Chapter Three
    Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Simon Puttock’s friend of the past six years, was interested to see that the good Bailiff had sent him a note. He took the wafer of paper from
the herald and walked to the window to examine the seal before opening it. Puttock’s mark was easy to recognise – a buzzard’s head impressed into the wax – and Baldwin
smiled before he pulled the seal from the paper.
    ‘I am grateful for this,’ he said. ‘Are you hungry or thirsty? I have some good ale ready and there is always a pie in my kitchen for a man who has travelled far and
fast.’
    Odo the herald smiled weakly and motioned to a stool. ‘For now, my Lord, I would be grateful merely for a seat that doesn’t rock beneath me. It is many years since I have been a
messenger. It doesn’t suit me so well as heraldry.’
    Baldwin grinned understandingly. Heralds were the eyes and ears of their masters, pointing out which men had displayed the greater prowess or courtesy in the tournament, or espying the insignia
of the enemy in battle, and guiding their masters away from dangerous opponents; in peacetime they were musicians and entertainers. Prolonged journeys were not sought by men who enjoyed a more
contemplative lifestyle, and although this Odo had a certain wiriness about him, he was bent, like a man who has travelled too much in his time.
    ‘Where do you go after this?’ Baldwin asked.
    ‘Back to Tiverton, where I can pick up my flute and practise again. With fortune, I may win the heart of a woman visiting the tournament. I’ve always found that a ready wit, a tune,
a rehashing of another man’s poetry and a purse full of golden coins will win companionship.’
    ‘Many would say that showing prowess with a sword would be a better way to win the heart of a lady.’
    ‘So they might, my Lord, but they would be fools. What sort of woman wishes to see her man risking his life on a field of battle? No, give me a buxom wench with a sparkle in her eye and a
ready laugh, one who will keep your bed warm, but who will still mull your ale and cook your breakfast in the morning. You can keep all the tarts who hanker after a man’s hose because
he’s knocked five or six others on the head!’ Odo said sagely, adding, ‘On the other hand, I have learned some new stories from France which should please – although no
doubt Lord Hugh’s fellows would prefer tales of their own valour. I’d better study his knights. It wouldn’t be sensible to forget the deeds of men who might decide to cut my hair
with a battle-axe!’
    Baldwin chuckled. He found the herald highly entertaining. ‘I’m sure you’d be safe from any number of axes,