them, Sir Derrick strode away without a word, leaving the squires sprawled in the grass. They were about to drag themselves back to the citadel when Sir Gilbert, their tactics tutor, came hobbling up the hill, carrying a sack across one shoulder.
‘It’s too hot to go back to that stuffy chamber,’ Sir Gilbert said, scratching at his pot belly. ‘We’ll sit up here beneath the mulberry trees, eh, what do you say? I’ve brought bread and cheese and we’ll drink from the stream.’
Gratefully Robin took his place in the shade, amid the chirping crickets and the slow bees. He broke bread with the other squires and they looked across the hills to the citadel.
‘No need to stare into dusty old books, not today,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘There’s plenty to learn right here. An opportunity to practise your heraldry. See that banner, above Murdak Tower. Two foxes, rampant, on a blue and black field. Whose device is that?’
‘Morton Durrell, of the Marches,’ said Rex Hubertson.
‘Yes, very good. A fierce lord of the borderlands, by allaccounts. He should be one to watch in the joust. And there. Embattled walls. Blasted tree. Yellow and green.’
‘Tristan de Roye,’ said several squires in unison.
‘Very good, very good. The Count is a man of great means. His lands stretch across three realms, in Saxony and the Holy Roman Empire …’
While the lesson went on, Bones leaned across to Robin. ‘You don’t think they’ll do it, do you?’ he whispered. He nodded towards Irish and Rowly, who were sitting a little way apart, their heads bent together.
‘Of course they won’t,’ Robin said. ‘Tarcel is playing games. He wants you to think they could even think it.’
Bones looked over to where Joscelin Tarcel was sitting with Baptiste and two of his other lackeys. Tarcel glanced over his shoulder and smiled and turned to say something to Francis Tutt.
‘I don’t care if we win,’ Bones whispered, twisting fingers through his chin-beard. ‘So long as we score more points than that pampered bunch of—’
‘Master Champion,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘Since you have so much to say, perhaps you could inform us whose colours are those, at the far end of the west wall …’
The lesson continued and the afternoon stretched away. Robin watched the pavilions rising, blue and yellow, on the display ground, and he felt the excitement and the nerves building. All the other squires were feeling the same, he could tell, and even Sir Gilbert was excitable as a child.
‘Listen,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘The herald’s horn. Another competitor arrives. Who can tell me who this is, flying the serpent and the cross? Yes, correct, Sir Stephen Coldacre, the famous crusader, a hunting companion of the Lionheart no less …’
It was a glorious afternoon, the skylarks pouring down theirsong, every blade of grass bending beneath the weight of an insect. A knight came out to exercise his warhorse, galloping up and down the lists, man and mount coated in steel, the thunder of hooves so heavy Robin thought he could feel it in the earth, even at this distance.
‘See here, yet more guests,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘A prize for the first of you who … ah, no I see I’m wrong. My eyes are not so sharp as they once were.’
Robin looked to the road below and what he saw there caused a cold shiver at the back of his neck. Winding their way up from the river were four horsemen, but these were not earls or dukes. These were common soldiers, dressed all in black, apart from their crimson cloaks, and the image of a wolf’s head stark red against their breastplates.
‘The Sheriff’s Guard,’ said Egor Towers. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘You know what I hear about the Sheriff,’ said Richard Warbrittle. ‘He feeds his horse on human flesh.’
‘He flays peasants to the bone …’ said Henry Winchester. ‘Wears their skins as clothes.’
Several other squires joined in, their stories increasingly lurid.
‘… The man
‘It’s too hot to go back to that stuffy chamber,’ Sir Gilbert said, scratching at his pot belly. ‘We’ll sit up here beneath the mulberry trees, eh, what do you say? I’ve brought bread and cheese and we’ll drink from the stream.’
Gratefully Robin took his place in the shade, amid the chirping crickets and the slow bees. He broke bread with the other squires and they looked across the hills to the citadel.
‘No need to stare into dusty old books, not today,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘There’s plenty to learn right here. An opportunity to practise your heraldry. See that banner, above Murdak Tower. Two foxes, rampant, on a blue and black field. Whose device is that?’
‘Morton Durrell, of the Marches,’ said Rex Hubertson.
‘Yes, very good. A fierce lord of the borderlands, by allaccounts. He should be one to watch in the joust. And there. Embattled walls. Blasted tree. Yellow and green.’
‘Tristan de Roye,’ said several squires in unison.
‘Very good, very good. The Count is a man of great means. His lands stretch across three realms, in Saxony and the Holy Roman Empire …’
While the lesson went on, Bones leaned across to Robin. ‘You don’t think they’ll do it, do you?’ he whispered. He nodded towards Irish and Rowly, who were sitting a little way apart, their heads bent together.
‘Of course they won’t,’ Robin said. ‘Tarcel is playing games. He wants you to think they could even think it.’
Bones looked over to where Joscelin Tarcel was sitting with Baptiste and two of his other lackeys. Tarcel glanced over his shoulder and smiled and turned to say something to Francis Tutt.
‘I don’t care if we win,’ Bones whispered, twisting fingers through his chin-beard. ‘So long as we score more points than that pampered bunch of—’
‘Master Champion,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘Since you have so much to say, perhaps you could inform us whose colours are those, at the far end of the west wall …’
The lesson continued and the afternoon stretched away. Robin watched the pavilions rising, blue and yellow, on the display ground, and he felt the excitement and the nerves building. All the other squires were feeling the same, he could tell, and even Sir Gilbert was excitable as a child.
‘Listen,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘The herald’s horn. Another competitor arrives. Who can tell me who this is, flying the serpent and the cross? Yes, correct, Sir Stephen Coldacre, the famous crusader, a hunting companion of the Lionheart no less …’
It was a glorious afternoon, the skylarks pouring down theirsong, every blade of grass bending beneath the weight of an insect. A knight came out to exercise his warhorse, galloping up and down the lists, man and mount coated in steel, the thunder of hooves so heavy Robin thought he could feel it in the earth, even at this distance.
‘See here, yet more guests,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘A prize for the first of you who … ah, no I see I’m wrong. My eyes are not so sharp as they once were.’
Robin looked to the road below and what he saw there caused a cold shiver at the back of his neck. Winding their way up from the river were four horsemen, but these were not earls or dukes. These were common soldiers, dressed all in black, apart from their crimson cloaks, and the image of a wolf’s head stark red against their breastplates.
‘The Sheriff’s Guard,’ said Egor Towers. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘You know what I hear about the Sheriff,’ said Richard Warbrittle. ‘He feeds his horse on human flesh.’
‘He flays peasants to the bone …’ said Henry Winchester. ‘Wears their skins as clothes.’
Several other squires joined in, their stories increasingly lurid.
‘… The man
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