A distant pair of shepherds gawped at the royal army as it marched past their pastures, jostling and nudging each other, pointing to men, horses and banners and presumably arguing what was the greater sight. From his place in the column, just behind the vanguard, William watched them in their turn.

Another bout of nudging and pointing ended with the two men dropping to their knees and bowing their heads; they had spotted him. When he saw one of the heads curiously return upright William raised a hand in a blessing. The shepherd began nudging his companion again, and this time William could guess exactly what they were saying: “The king blessed us! Us!” Some lords disdained even such simple gestures, but William knew well that the love of the people could be turned to his advantage. A beloved lord appealing to his subjects for aid got more in the way of funds and bodies than a hated one, as Yves was now discovering, according to William’s scouts.

A few miles further down the road one of the messengers from the vanguard rode down to William. “Sire, one of our scouts encountered a messenger from Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes. You wish to see him?”

De Ardentes; at last! One of the more troublesome entries on his list of men. “Send him down.”

The messenger galloped back to the head of the column, and William’s closest two bodyguards spurred their mounts to ride close at his side instead of behind. One could never be too careful.

Jocelyn’s messenger appeared after some delay, a filthy man on a nearly done in horse. He fell into loose place some distance from the right hand guard, and bowed in his saddle. “Sire.”

“Speak, if that is what you are here for.”

“My lord send this.” He offered a sealed letter to the intervening knight. “He bid me to say it comes with all haste, and apologises for the delay in its sending. He prays for your understanding and mercy.”

“Does he indeed.” William received the letter from his guard and examined the seal for signs it had been tampered with. There were none. “You will join the main body of my army; if I require you again I will send word. Otherwise rest your horse overnight and return to your lord tomorrow.”

The messenger bowed again and dropped back.

William broke the leather cords holding the parchment rolled up and began to read, having to hold the letter out to one side at arm’s length to bring the words into focus.

He read the letter twice before lowering it, rolling it back up and fastening it with the broken thong. “Does he indeed,” he repeated, this time to himself. Thoughtfully he examined the little knight on his charging horse, sword brandished above his head and coat of arms proudly displayed, stamped onto the wax disc of the seal. This would not quite do as planned, but was close enough.

William thrust the hand with the letter up into the air, summoning one of his own curriers. “Ride to FitzOsborn; tell him I require his presence, at once.”






“I am most pleased you have arrived.” Hugh seated himself in his accustomed place at the council chamber’s large table, to the right of the high chair. He gestured at Trempwick’s designated place. “Please, do take your ease. I see little reason to stand on ceremony where there is but the two of us.”

“Thank you.” Trempwick’s place was at what would be the king’s left, directly opposite Hugh. He watched, waited, for the other man to begin. Let him show his hand first. This contained little princeling, hard to read, so intent on binding up all personal feeling. Always wearing a mask. What lay under it? A terrified little boy, caught playing with his elder brother’s toys. A man petrified of failure. Bound by expectation. Hampered by tradition. A need to be thought of kindly. Lacking creativity. Straightforward. Not his sister’s match, in anything. Potential, surely. But squandered. He would not embrace it; turned from it, and so became less than he might have been if he were indeed talentless. A man who would try his best, but always hold a part of himself back, then mourn because he was not better.

Or so Trempwick had always thought. Now he was not so sure.

The contrast of siblings seldom failed to amuse him. As with every child each had things purely their own, distinct from relatives. Those were less interesting in the comparison. In many respects Nell was her father’s daughter. Temper, those eyes, the stubbornness, many other little unconscious echoes which called William to mind when witnessed. She had a trace of her mother. Little things. The curve of her eyebrows, the way she hid her unhappiness. Parts that were a blend of both parents. Her mind, chiefly, but then taken to a higher degree. She had been shaped by Trempwick; perhaps the most telling influence, perhaps a little behind William’s legacy.

Hugh was rather more his mother’s son. She had been an undemonstrative woman. Quite controlled. Not happy with noise, mess, fuss, crowds. But he had taken it to a fine art. His father’s son? Not much. Enguerrand had been a personable man, quick to amusement, subject to his emotions. It was impossible to imagine Hugh burning with a love as his father had done. Or risking his life for it. Or retiring to die fighting in Spain when the end inevitably came. Foolish melodrama, that man had been, feeling everything too deeply. Such resemblance as there was came mostly from physical attributes. But not enough to clearly mark him as another man’s son. Joanna had been so fortunate there. Fortunate also that her husband had been blind as well as inattentive. Fortunate her wit had been sufficient to keep the affair almost entirely secret. Fortunate another young man at court had loved her with all his boyish heart, had not betrayed her when he should have.

That did not mean he would wish her forgiveness for what he was doing now. Puppy love, and for the unobtainable. For a dream that he had believed she fitted. Wondrous at a distance. Less so close up.

The bastard finally got around to beginning. “Let us also dispense with fancy words and speak plainly. I presume from your early presence you have received word of the attempt on my sister’s life? My message was sent to you this morning.”

Bland little smile. “Yes. I came with all haste and a troubled mind, and I fear I have only become more troubled since my arrival.” He’d left before it had even arrived. Not that he would betray it. Not that the fact was important. One should never give clues for free.

“Forgive me; much has happened of late, much affecting your good self. I scarcely know where to begin.”

“You can begin by telling me why you have delayed my wedding.”

Nothing; as much effect as aiming his words to stone. “Nell has informed you of that so swiftly? I suppose I should have expected as much.”

“Why would she not? You will agree it is important to both of us.”

Hugh paused, marshalling his thoughts. Telling; he had not already prepared this speech. “You are already occupied with your usual work, burdened even more heavily by matters in France. In addition to that you must now undertake the investigation of the attempt on my sister’s life. The first takes up much of your time, but no more than any occupation. The second has you working late into the night and up early each morn, eating as you labour and seldom resting. I know; Nell told me when I enquired as to your health. This neglect, I am afraid to say, saddened her considerably.” The bastard held up his hands, placating. “I know it was not your choice, and I am strongly aware that you must have been little happier with the situation yourself. Now I must add a third burden, and at this point you will have no time at all for her. I will not have my sister a neglected new wife; at the start of a marriage the couple should spend much time together if they hope to adjust to one another and settle happily.”

“Nell and I already know one another.”

“As master and apprentice, not as husband and wife. If you cannot see the difference then my heart bleeds for her.”

Trempwick held his eyes closed for longer than a blink needed, mouth set into a line. “You need not resort to petty slights, your highness.”

Minor distress on the bastard’s part as the dart went home. Followed by guilt. Discomfort. A mental scourge was being applied to that princely back. “I apologise; it was unworthy of me.” The bastard knocked off-balance a little. Trempwick re-established as a man requiring respect in return. Excellent.

He accepted this with a slight nod, continued his speech, “You miss my point; Nell and I are not strangers, we have little adjusting to do, little to learn about each other’s basic personalities, and great understanding for the situation we are in. We do not need time to establish a basic friendship, like most couples.”

“And you miss my point.” Hugh interlocked his fingers and placed his joined hands on the polished tabletop. Leaned forward slightly. Face intent, yet in the same controlled way as ever. “You care for her, yes? And she for you? It is no longer a question of duty and forced compliance?”

“You have seen it is not.”

“Indeed; matters have altered in the two months since the arrangement was made. That is why I chose to delay; if you were both indifferent it would not matter. Come morning the two of you will be closer than ever, wanting every moment you can get and lamenting every lost second. You cannot afford to be distracted.”

“I would not be,” replied Trempwick flatly.

Now the bastard leaned back, hands still bound together. “Then you plan to neglect my sister, and thus the delay can mean nothing to you.”

Calculation. Countermove: indignation. “Highness, I most strongly protest! I would never neglect Nell.”

“And so you see? You would be distracted.” Under the mask an effort to be reasonable. To be understood. Liked for this. The hands at last unlinked; one extended towards Trempwick minutely. “If you can compartmentalise your heart then you do not care for her, as you assert – and demonstrate – you do. Consider her also; neglect hurts when it comes from a friend, but from a lover it tears your heart. When you did meet you would be exhausted and she fraught, and no good could come of that. As each day passed the hurt would begin to purge the good. Ultimately you would grow apart; her heart sealed off to prevent further anguish, and her put from your mind except when she is in your presence.” The proffered hand stretched a little closer. An offer of a lifeline? Or a speech-giver’s gesture for understanding? The latter, Trempwick decided. “I will not do that to my sister. Though you may not believe me when I say it, I find she has suffered more than enough; I would see her happy now, happy and settled.” Lies. A point to be tackled later.

This would go nowhere. Circular arguments. Some truth. A part of his own thoughts reflected back at him: once bedded Nell would grow attached to him in a way he could not achieve otherwise. Closer. Linked. Always the case, to some degree, unless there was loathing there. Even if a disaster physically a bond was created, albeit a weak one. From small seeds did great trees grow. Why else had he carefully combined truth and lie, revealing a hint of his vulnerable core, humiliating himself a little, working to that end? Carefully planned forays; win if she was persuaded, slightly lesser win if she was not. An end to his wondering about the pet also; dividend. Reluctantly Trempwick also owned he would grow a little more attached too; personal honesty even where sore. He cared enough for her that it was inevitable, if not likely to be spectacular. Not a distraction for him, no. But there.

Besides the point. Truth regardless, what did the bastard care? Nell had been right. His initial and lasting suspicion had been right. For whatever reason the bastard had called a halt to the wedding; he would not be moved. To press further would be risky. Retreat with good grace. Appear a sheep. Remain a wolf. “I see your meaning, and I am rather pleased you see us in such a light, especially given the inauspicious start.”

Pleased. An offering of a rewarding smile; insulting, actually, considering it all. “I shall confide an extra motive to you, one which is to go no further than this room. I say extra because that is the truth; I have already told you my primary concern. My father once told me that a king should find wider advantage even in the most personal of things. If someone can strike at my sister in this very palace, strike and nearly succeed, mark you, then confidence in our security is damaged. Royal hospitality needs to be trusted by all.” The bastard ran a hand through his long hair, brushing it back from his face. More a gesture of tiredness than of bother due to stray strands. “That confidence must be restored, or people will fear to come here, and our reputation will suffer in all places. It will become a matter for common jest that we cannot protect our guests. It matters less that security is a problem at present than that people know it to be so. I need not tell you the import of such fragile illusions in maintaining the power of the crown. The delay will make a statement.”

A more honest motive than the first? No. More half truths. “That we are afraid.”

The bastard once again leaned forward, one forearm planted on the table for support. Again, that need to be understood. Recognised. Praised. “That we are alerted, on guard and devoting ourselves to plugging the gap; raising our shield from rest to guard. When the wedding is held it will also serve as an announcement that we have dealt with the problem. An initial, small loss of face perhaps, but for greater dividends later.”

“That can be so, but you must be aware that both opinions will be prevalent.”

“Of course. It is up to us to ensure the view we desire is the more common one.”

Up to Trempwick, he meant. “Your faith honours me.”

“I am aware we have little liking for one another on a personal level, but I am very respectful of your skills and loyalties.”

“I would not say I had little liking for you, your highness.” No; he detested the bastard.

“My own dislike is foundered in what you are, by necessity of your station. I value honour as the foremost virtue a man should have. You lie, deceive, consort with spies.”

Trempwick greeted that with a sardonic smile. “Lead an interesting life, you mean?”

“Rest assured that you will always have your place upon my council, just as under my father. A man should not be counselled alone by those who like him; knowledge and a will to council, not mouth what is believed to be wanted. I know you capable of that.” The bastard was more enthusiastic now; mask slipping. The point he had wanted to make for a while, obviously. How pleasant. How very in need of further analysis.

“Correct,” he agreed pleasantly. “Speaking of William, he will not be pleased when he returns to find Nell unmarried still.”

“I am aware of that, and willing to answer for my actions and face whatever consequences may arise.”

Casually threaten, “Rather you than me; William in high dudgeon is difficult to deal with.”

Hugh flushed. Jaw muscles tightened, eyes narrowed. “Your king will have your respect, spymaster!”

Be as stone. Unmoved. “My friend demands honesty from me, at all times, even when it favours his character not at all. If you cannot explain yourself to his satisfaction you will be in very hot water.”

“I am aware of that, and am willing to answer for my actions and face whatever consequences may arise.” Repeated; more conviction … born of emotion. So, there was an element of fear there. Fear his father would not approve. That shed little light on his motive. But it would help to narrow possibilities down. He could immediately rule out a covert order from William. Bastard’s calm reasserted, slipped mask straightened. “I believe we are done, now. You will begin your investigation at once, and report to me any significant advances. You will find the maid who collected the poison in the calls in the inner gatehouse; I suggest you begin there.”

Not done. Trempwick did not move even a muscle. “Who had led the investigation until now?”

“Richard de Clare; it falls within his jurisdiction.”

Richard de Clare. Trempwick delicately dug his thumbnail into the side of his index finger, hard. A former coroner. An idle, lazy one who had delegated everything he could. Like many he had taken the post for corrupt profit and more honest prestige. Yes, he could make sure walls were patrolled, gates guarded, watches kept, men trained, measures put in place. He was good at that; very good. It was why he had this position. But de Clare was not one to do well at the fine, subtle art of investigation. Not unusual; few were. Few even cared.

Trempwick relaxed his hand, feeling the mark his nail had left on his skin tingle. “There is one remaining matter, your highness.”

“Yes?”

“Forgive me if I phrase this one very bluntly. Nell is mine; my pupil, my betrothed, contracted to me. You will not touch her again. If you have a complaint, bring it to me and I will deal with it.”

The bastard’s brow creased angrily. “You are too soft, spymaster. If you were not then this problem would not exist.”

“Soft?” Trempwick steepled his hands, resting his chin on the tips of his longest fingers. “Then how is it she only exhibits her worse traits to you and her father? I shall tell you why; it is because she knows I am anything but soft, and she dislikes my methods far more than yours.” He sat back, folding his hands in his lap. “In some ways you play into her hands. Given a choice Nell would prefer a beating; over and done with sooner, less humiliating, and I am sure we all know there is a certain … honour to be wrung out of suffering with fortitude. I understand her, how she works. Leave her to me. Better for all concerned, and far more efficient.”

“We shall see how matters fall if the need arises again,” said the bastard coolly.

Yes, we shall see, Trempwick silently vowed. As he had very much expected a more direct approach on even a few of the matters he wished to raise had failed. No matter. He would revert to more subtle means.






Trempwick appropriated a spacious room in the top of one of the inner wall’s towers, the one just behind Nell’s guest house. Unwanted furniture was carried out, required items moved in, and within the hour the room was just as he wanted it.

While servants worked at that he had sought out Richard de Clare, finding the man inspecting a new batch of crossbows. One brief discussion - involving a bit of friendly camaraderie to ensure the man maintained his friendly opinion of him - had revealed the investigation had gone as they so often did. Badly. Nothing much found. Evidence disposed of as “No longer needed.” The entire palace and town alerted to the search. An effort to control those who left, to be relented next Monday. The town watch called in to assist with inquiries outside of the palace itself, and to lend muscle; a bunch of fools blundering about in his path. Guilt all but fixed on the first, easiest suspect: Juliana. Plans already forming to torture her to find who she worked for. It was a typical investigation. He had seen hundreds, thousands, like it.

They could not have done a much better job of obstructing his own search if they had tried.

Sending away the last of the servants Trempwick sat at the table. He laid out a sheet of parchment, smoothed it flat with his hands. He picked up a quill, lowered the nib into in the ink. Delicately he pressed the side of the tip to the rim of the pot, draining excess ink. He began to write. Write nothing much, just a copy of a song. As he wrote he waited. And thought.

The initial work had been bungled. The waters muddied. But there were many avenues he could take. Many people he could speak to again. He had Nell’s own testimony to collect. His mother’s also. He should visit her soon; he had not done so yet.

He completed one verse and began the second. Still waiting. So much preying on his mind at present. This poisoning felt very wrong; who would gain by it? Almost always the potential source was apparent, even if that source was the wrong one. But to strike at Nell? When no one really gains? Or gains in a way he could not yet see. Both equally troubling. The bastard princeling himself; another puzzle. The delayed wedding; a puzzle. Beating Nell so badly; a puzzle. Fulk and Hawise being dumped on Nell; a puzzle. Nell herself; a puzzle. So many puzzles; some but minor itches, some so much more significant.

A wry chuckle, safe in the privacy of his own mind. Well, he had wanted something to stretch him a little. Now he had it, and he wished he did not.

He began the third verse. The words themselves were not important. It was only something to occupy his body while his mind roved. Few people were understanding of a man who stared blankly ahead, or thought too deeply or in excess. As if such a thing were possible. The bastard had sense. He had not believed the easy answer; that Juliana was responsible. That said many things. It spoke highly of the bastard’s interest in justice. His desire to find the true culprit, not a scapegoat. Matched the view Trempwick had of him, to perfection. But only made certain recent events more puzzling. Perhaps Nell lied, understating her misdeeds? Possible; she had done so many times previously. So … if she had done something to deserve those beatings … where then did that leave his view of the bastard?

The door opened. A man at arms dragged Juliana in, hit her when she didn’t curtsey fast enough, then bowed to Trempwick himself. “The prisoner, my lord.”

Trempwick set down his quill, a study of dispassionate calm. “Thank you. In future you will knock before barging in here; any who does not will be shovelling shit in the stables, if they are fortunate. Tell your comrades. You will explain why you did not knock this time.”

“My hands were full with the prisoner, lordship.”

A significant glance at the weeping maid. Raise eyebrows, say with a hint of mockery, “Yes, I can see how she could be a problem for a big, strapping man like yourself.” The guard’s ears went bright red. “You may go.”

“Lordship.” The man marched stiffly from the room.

Trempwick stood up and stepped out from behind his table. Juliana flung herself at his feet, clutching the hem of his tunic. “I knew you would save me!”

Unseen Trempwick rolled his eyes. Pathetic. He dropped to his knees beside her. “Yes, I shall save you, never fear. But you must help me; you must answer my questions truthfully.”

“I wouldn’t lie, not to you.” More noisy tears. “They were going to torture me!” she wailed. “They wouldn’t believe a word I said; one even accused me of being an accomplice! They said I was going to hang! I’m innocent, I swear it! On my soul!” A shaking hand drew a frantic cross over her chest. “I had nothing to do with any of it, I wouldn’t!”

He kissed her just to shut her up; he had gathered the general idea long ago. At the same time he amended his opinion; not so pathetic. She had some cause. “You will not hang,” he promised.

“Don’t send me back to the cells, I beg you! Please! The guards …” The snivelling dropped in pitch to a murmur, “I had to bring up your name to protect myself.” Added panic. She clutched at him, painfully tight. “You won’t send me back there, will you? Oh, you can’t, please, no!”

“Peace! Peace! No, you will not go back to the cells either.” His knees were uncomfortable on the hard floor. He stood, pulling her up with him. “Tell me about this man, the one who talked to you while you waited for the food to be assembled.”

“I don’t know him, and I’ve only seen him that once.”

“What did he look like?”

“I didn’t take much notice. He was in the royal livery, average height and build, blondish hair. He had a slight beard. I don’t think he was one of the better servants, just some kitchen hand or other menial type.” The often present disgust of one servant for another, lesser one. He had always found that intriguing. Already his work on her was paying off; she had said a few new things.

“That is all you remember?”

“I wasn’t looking closely. Why would I?”

He shook his head, all disappointed and lost hope. “I hoped you might have more for me; I was so sure your sharp wits and eyes could provide what I need.”

He saw consternation. Her need to help him, to be approved, to reward his love. “There’s more,” she blurted. “It’s so uncertain, that’s why I’ve not said it before. A name. Aldwin, I think someone called him Aldwin.”

“Excellent!” He kissed her deeply. “Now, wipe your face and I will return you to my mother.” A second’s thought. “If I take you to the cells can you show me which guards … bothered you?” A small, sharp reminder of the king’s wishes towards his prisoners would not go astray. His wishes also; maltreated prisoners were often harder to deal with. Besides, she was his mother’s maid; in some vague way under his protection.





“There is ever such a commotion out there,” said Anne, pressing her face to the cloudy window glass.

“Is there?” Eleanor looked up briefly, then turned back to the game of tafl she was playing with Fulk.

“Yes; come see.”

“Do I have to? For once I am not losing; I do not want to lose my concentration.”

“Go on,” encouraged Fulk, “if you lose later then you’ll have a good excuse. That’ll be a first.”

Eleanor sighed. “Oh, all right. Once I make my move.” They were roughly in the middle of the game, and were still tied. Playing the defence she had lost three warriors; Fulk four of his attackers. She might not have a clear route to victory, but she was not penned in or under too much threat either.

Just as she began to settle back into her game plan Anne’s voice jolted her back out again. “Oh, how terrible!” There was definite consternation in her tone.

Eleanor hurried over to the window, Fulk not far behind. Even Hawise dropped her mending and went to the other window. Out on the sward, perhaps two-hundred paces from her guest house, a man was tied by his wrists to the sideboards of a wagon which had been rolled up especially. He wore royal livery, but was stripped to the waist. Two other men similarly attired waited behind him, guarded at weapon point by men at arms. The final liveried man was wielding a whip, with quite some effect. Blood poured down the first man’s back.

Fulk was the first to leave the window, apparently unaffected. “Wonder what they did?”

Eleanor recognised two figures stood to witness the flogging. “Hugh is there, and Trempwick.”

“Juliana too,” said Hawise softly, at the same moment Eleanor spotted the maid huddling in Trempwick’s protective shadow. “Maybe this means she is free now?”

Eleanor didn’t answer. She watched as the first man was cut down, to stumble away to help, and the next pushed forward to take his place. Her own back throbbed in sympathy. “It looks a deal worse from the outside.”

“What do you mean?” Anne glanced from window to Eleanor and back again. She shuddered and turned to sit properly again, picking up her book with a resolute hand.

“One can never see one’s own back.”






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