richer reward. Victory.’
Tarcel glanced at The Beast, who stood behind, expressionless. ‘You hear this, Baptiste. Victory. And look what we have here …’ He pointed to Irish. ‘Fyn MacDair. As good a swordsman as you will find, and peerless in the joust …’
Next he pointed to Rowly. ‘Ifor Rowland. The Destroyer. A formidable weapon in the mêlée, so long as somebody points him in the right direction …’
Rowly looked puzzled, clearly not sure if he was being praised or insulted.
‘Robin Loxley,’ Tarcel continued. ‘All but guaranteed to win the archery stage, and quicker than most running the gauntlet. And lastly Jack Champion. The famous Bones. He brings brains, and a certain rough guile. Join our skill and strength to their ranks, Baptiste, and we would stand every chance of claiming the coveted prize.’
‘So it’s agreed,’ Rowly said, standing, rubbing his big hands together. ‘We’ll go out there tomorrow and smash the rest to pieces.’
Tarcel looked at him and smirked. ‘No, we will not be joining you. Must I inform you why? Very well. Baptiste is the son of a Sicilian duke. My family, as you certainly know, stretches back to the Roman kings. In years to come, in real theatres of war, should we ever find ourselves on the losing side, Baptiste and I would prove prize assets. A ransom would change hands, our blood would remain unspilled. But you two …’ He pointed first at Robin, then at Bones. ‘A peasant and an alms-child. The pair of you, in defeat, would be worth less than stray dogs. You would be slaughtered with the foot soldiers and left forthe crows. Why would we devalue ourselves, even at this stage, by allying with the likes of you?’
Until this moment Baptiste, whose English was still poor, had shown little sign of following the conversation. But now he smiled.
Bones was clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘So you came out here purely because it amused you.’
‘Not at all,’ Tarcel said. ‘We meet in good faith, to negotiate. As you know, my company, unlike yours, has a full complement of six combatants. However, two of our number are proving … less than satisfactory. It occurs to me their ideal replacements are here. Ifor Rowland, the son of a marcher baron. Fyn MacDair, descendant of a Celtic prince, no? Talented both, and high-born, yet wedded to these scullions. The pair of you, I’m sure, would be more at home—’
‘You snake, you slimy crawling—’ Bones moved towards Tarcel; Rowly held him back. ‘You’re going in the moat,’ Bones said to Tarcel, struggling. ‘Let go of me, you big aurochs, let me get my hands on him, he’s going for a swim …’
‘You see, Baptiste,’ Tarcel said. ‘Master Champion attempts to play the nobleman, but now he shows his true colours. We will be hearing from you shortly, squires Rowland, MacDair.’
Tarcel and Baptiste, still smiling, turned and walked away. Bones twisted in Rowly’s grip and swore. Robin moved forward and put a hand on Bones’s shoulder.
‘Don’t give him the satisfaction,’ Robin said. ‘Can’t you see how much he’s enjoying himself. He wasn’t serious. He knows no one can split the four of us.’
He looked at Rowly, who was now staring out over the moat, and at Irish, who was digging in the earth again with his knife.
‘Right?’ Robin said. ‘He’s just trying to unsettle us. He knows we stick together.’
Rowly nodded.
‘Yes, sure, correct,’ Irish said.
Bones looked at all three of them, each in turn, but said nothing. They went together back to the north gate, and walked through the manor to the armoury, none of them saying a word.
The squires spent that morning in the near hills, endurance training with Sir Derrick. Beneath the sharp sun he made them run up and down the slopes, carrying one another pig-a-back. Then they tied ropes from the beech trees and Sir Derrick made them climb these, over and over, using only their arms.
When he had finished with
Tarcel glanced at The Beast, who stood behind, expressionless. ‘You hear this, Baptiste. Victory. And look what we have here …’ He pointed to Irish. ‘Fyn MacDair. As good a swordsman as you will find, and peerless in the joust …’
Next he pointed to Rowly. ‘Ifor Rowland. The Destroyer. A formidable weapon in the mêlée, so long as somebody points him in the right direction …’
Rowly looked puzzled, clearly not sure if he was being praised or insulted.
‘Robin Loxley,’ Tarcel continued. ‘All but guaranteed to win the archery stage, and quicker than most running the gauntlet. And lastly Jack Champion. The famous Bones. He brings brains, and a certain rough guile. Join our skill and strength to their ranks, Baptiste, and we would stand every chance of claiming the coveted prize.’
‘So it’s agreed,’ Rowly said, standing, rubbing his big hands together. ‘We’ll go out there tomorrow and smash the rest to pieces.’
Tarcel looked at him and smirked. ‘No, we will not be joining you. Must I inform you why? Very well. Baptiste is the son of a Sicilian duke. My family, as you certainly know, stretches back to the Roman kings. In years to come, in real theatres of war, should we ever find ourselves on the losing side, Baptiste and I would prove prize assets. A ransom would change hands, our blood would remain unspilled. But you two …’ He pointed first at Robin, then at Bones. ‘A peasant and an alms-child. The pair of you, in defeat, would be worth less than stray dogs. You would be slaughtered with the foot soldiers and left forthe crows. Why would we devalue ourselves, even at this stage, by allying with the likes of you?’
Until this moment Baptiste, whose English was still poor, had shown little sign of following the conversation. But now he smiled.
Bones was clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘So you came out here purely because it amused you.’
‘Not at all,’ Tarcel said. ‘We meet in good faith, to negotiate. As you know, my company, unlike yours, has a full complement of six combatants. However, two of our number are proving … less than satisfactory. It occurs to me their ideal replacements are here. Ifor Rowland, the son of a marcher baron. Fyn MacDair, descendant of a Celtic prince, no? Talented both, and high-born, yet wedded to these scullions. The pair of you, I’m sure, would be more at home—’
‘You snake, you slimy crawling—’ Bones moved towards Tarcel; Rowly held him back. ‘You’re going in the moat,’ Bones said to Tarcel, struggling. ‘Let go of me, you big aurochs, let me get my hands on him, he’s going for a swim …’
‘You see, Baptiste,’ Tarcel said. ‘Master Champion attempts to play the nobleman, but now he shows his true colours. We will be hearing from you shortly, squires Rowland, MacDair.’
Tarcel and Baptiste, still smiling, turned and walked away. Bones twisted in Rowly’s grip and swore. Robin moved forward and put a hand on Bones’s shoulder.
‘Don’t give him the satisfaction,’ Robin said. ‘Can’t you see how much he’s enjoying himself. He wasn’t serious. He knows no one can split the four of us.’
He looked at Rowly, who was now staring out over the moat, and at Irish, who was digging in the earth again with his knife.
‘Right?’ Robin said. ‘He’s just trying to unsettle us. He knows we stick together.’
Rowly nodded.
‘Yes, sure, correct,’ Irish said.
Bones looked at all three of them, each in turn, but said nothing. They went together back to the north gate, and walked through the manor to the armoury, none of them saying a word.
The squires spent that morning in the near hills, endurance training with Sir Derrick. Beneath the sharp sun he made them run up and down the slopes, carrying one another pig-a-back. Then they tied ropes from the beech trees and Sir Derrick made them climb these, over and over, using only their arms.
When he had finished with
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