Roseblood by Paul Doherty

He closed his eyes. Surely it was Damana, about a month ago? But why then? Who had emerged in the ward during that time? Sevigny? LeCorbeil? He opened his eyes. Then there was that innocent-looking pilgrim, the one Katherine called a sparrow, with his sharp eyes and benign smile.
    ‘Raphael!’ He glanced to his right. A shadow moved. Confused, his mind riven by what he’d just seen, and tired after the river journey, Raphael was sluggish. ‘Raphael!’ the voice hissed. ‘A message for your father. We are both the slave and the master of what we were, what we are, what we’ve done and what we do. We watch and wait. Our day is fast approaching. Vengeance will be ours…’
    The voice was so mocking, Raphael leapt to his feet, the fury curdling within him coursing like a fire. He flung himself in the direction of the voice, so swift he caught the edge of a cloak. He stumbled, but steadied himself, drawing both sword and dagger. He lunged and gasped in pleasure as his blades caught steel, their scraping clash ringing like a bell across the deserted courtyard. He lunged again, using every trick Ignacio had taught him, dagger constant, sword blade whirling, turning slightly sideways as he attempted to drive his opponent across to where torchlight flared against the blackness. He drew a deep breath. He had caught and engaged his opponent, but his adversary was equally swift and skilful. He concentrated on the slither of steel swirling before him.
    Shouts of, ‘Out! Out! Out! Harrow! Harrow!’ showed that the alarm had been raised at this clash of weaponry. Doors were flung open. Raphael could hear his father shouting, yet he fought on, driving his opponent back. They reached a runnel, a narrow gap between the friary buildings, and his adversary was gone. Raphael crouched to catch his breath, aware of the sweat drenching his skin; his father, Prior Aelred and others gathered round. Swords were being drawn; the sound of footsteps echoed.
    ‘Who was it?’ Aelred demanded.
    ‘I glimpsed a fleeting shadow, a night-tripping demon, but now he has gone.’ Raphael tried to control the sickness in his belly even as his father crouched to face him. ‘I am not strong enough for this,’ he whispered.
    ‘Nonsense,’ his father retorted. ‘You would have killed him. You attacked him like any good knight. Who was it? Sevigny? What did he say?’
    Raphael told him.
    ‘LeCorbeil!’ Simon retorted. ‘He is spinning his web. God knows what, but your speed surprised him. He will be more careful in the future. Now come.’ He got up. ‘The hour is late. Soon the good brothers will sing Matins, but we have a visitor.’
    Raphael followed his father and Prior Aelred back into the maze of friary buildings. They were ushered into a comfortable chamber, where the pilgrim Reginald Bray sat, smiling benevolently as always. Raphael and his father took stools before the table. Prior Aelred gestured at wine, bread and cheese. Raphael filled the goblets and broke up the manchet loaf and hardened cheese. Once finished, he offered these to their visitor, who courteously refused.
    ‘I understand,’ Bray’s voice was deep and throaty, ‘that you have had quite a stirring evening. An intruder, yes?’
    ‘So I believe,’ Raphael snapped.
    ‘LeCorbeil!’ Bray replied. ‘It must have been him. And you, Raphael, truly surprised him. But enough.’ He sipped at his goblet. ‘Master Simon, you are Beaufort’s henchman. I am new to his service, being indentured to the Lady Margaret; she is the thirteen-year-old daughter of your former master, John Beaufort, First Duke of Somerset. Margaret is a young woman with the pale, smooth face of a maid and eyes a thousand years old. So,’ Bray gathered his cloak about him, ‘I am not here to discuss the disappearance of whores, the smuggling of the best wine from Bordeaux or the perjured testimony of Candlemas.’ He smiled. ‘I am confident, one way or the other, that you will meet that challenge. I