A Cruel Courtship by Candace Robb

paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you tracking the English commanders?’
    God’s blood he was difficult this evening. ‘No,’ said Andrew, ‘You implied–’
    ‘Father Andrew dislikes silences, so he was politely filling in conversation,’ said Father Obert with affectionate amusement. ‘His earnest courtesy can be painful, and often misunderstood.’ Hewrapped his long, slender fingers round his mazer and smiled over the top at Thomas.
    ‘Do you think so?’ asked Thomas, settling back with some food. ‘I have heard only praise for Father Andrew.’
    ‘But Thomas, you know that I have little tolerance for courtesy.’
    The two men laughed. Andrew was uncertain whether Obert truly did amuse Thomas with his acid tongue, or whether Thomas pretended for the sake of his pride. Andrew liked Obert, and respected Thomas for his steadfast rule of the spital in difficult circumstances. But he trusted no one here except his servant Matthew. He was certain that everyone in the spital was working for one side or the other, or if not, they would freely betray anyone necessary in order to protect themselves. He gazed round the room, remembering other evenings with English commanders. More candles and lamps had been lit on those occasions, and often a canon had played a gittern in the corner.
    ‘You miss the music, Andrew?’ Thomas inquired.
    ‘I was remembering it,’ said Andrew, vowing to keep his eyes on the table before him for the remainder of the evening, for the master’s scrutiny made him feel frighteningly exposed, as if his intention to escape was written in the movement of his eyes.
    ‘They say that David, the Welsh archer who escaped, was an accomplished musician and had aremarkable voice,’ said Thomas. ‘I regret not having known that while he was here. They say the Welsh have the most beautiful voices.’
    ‘I have heard that said of Italians, but not the Welsh,’ Obert countered.
    ‘What say you, Andrew?’ Thomas asked.
    Andrew prayed that the dimness of the lamplight hid the sweat on his upper lip and forehead, of which he was damnably aware. ‘The French have a delicacy of phrasing that is often praised,’ he said.
    ‘Do you not wonder what poor David suffers?’ said Obert. ‘The guards sent in after him are yet in the infirmary. What did he achieve?’
    ‘I should think it would be a great challenge to escape from such a well-guarded place,’ said Andrew. ‘But so far from his own people, where would he go? How would he eat?’ He hoped his voice sounded as normal to them as it did to him.
    Thomas was nodding. ‘I, too, wondered that.’
    ‘Perhaps he did not escape,’ said Obert.
    ‘What?’ said Thomas, but then he seemed to see that it was possible and began to smile. ‘He is in hiding. Who would notice a little food missing from the kitchen, eh? Yes. It is quite possible.’
    Obert, bent over his trencher, glanced at Andrew and shook his head slightly. Andrew took it as a warning not to voice his theory, that David was a spy who merely left, that the story of the drains was to discourage anyone seeking to escape. Andrew still found it difficult to believe the Englishcaptains would have sacrificed two of their men to make the story seem real.
    As the meal continued, the conversation quieted into domestic issues and innocent gossip. But towards the end of the evening Master Thomas began a unsavoury game of pitting one of them against the other. ‘How do you feel, having such a popular assistant, Father Obert?’, ‘You must find it difficult to obey a man not because he is a better priest but merely because he is older, Father Andrew.’ And he watched them squirm.
    No, he watched Andrew squirm. Obert seemed mildly amused.
    Later, in Obert’s chamber, Andrew asked if they might talk before he went to his own bed.
    ‘Help me with these first,’ said the elderly priest as he eased himself down on his simple bed and proffered his booted feet. ‘In my youth I imagined an old age