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If he’d only had some time towards the end of John’s reign, he could have formulated some plans, but the king’s sudden death had left him unprepared for his next move, and the question of how to wheedle his way into the good graces of the present administration was a thorny one. There was no point in trying to charm the king himself – the boy was only nine and would be unable to rule in his own right for many years to come. No, the person who needed to be won over was the regent. The problem was how to go about it? William Marshal was a legend, the sort of man whose name would echo down the ages. He was over seventy years old, was the most frighteningly loyal and upright man de Courteville had ever known, and he was definitely, absolutely, unquestionably, not stupid. That ruled out de Courteville’s two preferred options, which involved either flattery and lies, or offering to perform any little unpleasant jobs which the regent might want done. No, the emphasis would have to be on honesty and loyalty, two rare qualities in these troubled times. The one factor in his favour was that he himself had been loyal to John all the way through his conflict with the barons – well, his position had depended upon it, after all – so he could use that with the regent. The best thing to do would be to uncover some evidence of treachery on the part of one of the other nobles, preferably one who’d already changed sides, so Warenne was a prime candidate. Nothing had been unearthed so far, but he’d only been here a matter of hours – something would come up. Then he would consult his mental list of those who had slighted him, and have his fill of revenge. The power would swing back his way again, and he could start to build his dynasty.

It was nearly time for the evening meal, so he decided to change out of his travelling clothes into something more suitable, something which would ostentatiously display his wealth and power. Hopefully he could goad Warenne into an indiscretion which could be used against him. He bellowed again for his squires – where on God’s earth were they? – and went into the bedchamber. Something caught his eye, and he looked at the bed to see that there was a piece of parchment on it. Frowning, he picked it up and scanned the contents; he had just finished when Adam hurried into the room, panting an apology for his tardiness, followed shortly by David. He turned on them, waving the parchment.

‘What’s this?’

They looked at each other, unsure of what to say, flinching as he neared them. Adam essayed a tentative reply. ‘A letter, my lord?’

De Courteville, his foul mood making him even more impatient than usual, cuffed him hard around the ear. ‘I know it’s a letter, idiot boy. But who is it from? When was it delivered?’ Adam rubbed his ear, and looked at David. ‘I don’t know, my lord. I didn’t see who brought it.’

De Courteville looked at David, who also said he hadn’t seen the letter’s bearer. Honestly, they were both as useless as each other, the one a milksop and the other forever trying to avoid his duties. He raised his hand, about to pursue the matter further, and saw them both shrink back, but he didn’t have the time for this. Abruptly he changed his mind and put the letter into the pouch at his belt, ordering them to find clothes for him.

The great hall was crowded, probably the fullest he’d ever seen it, thought Edwin, as he tried to squeeze into a space at one of the lower tables. Even though most of the ordinary soldiers had been left outside the castle – no Berold this evening – there were still the extra knights and their squires and senior men to fit in; this didn’t leave much room for those who normally ate their evening meal in the hall, as Edwin was forcibly reminded by a sharp elbow to the ribs from his left-hand neighbour at the table, a large fellow who was squashed uncomfortably against him. Ignoring the loud military conversations which were going on about him, he looked up at the top table. Well, they had slightly more room there, but not much, and as he scanned the faces, he realised that very few of them looked happy to be there, and that whoever had decided on the order of seating – or perhaps it was all pre-determined by rank, he didn’t know, maybe he would ask William about it some time – couldn’t have made things much more awkward if he’d tried. The earl, in his usual place at the centre of the table, was chafing in between the two de Courteville brothers, and was speaking to them as little as courtesy allowed, and only in what looked like short, clipped sentences. The visiting earl, on his right, was doing very little to remedy the situation, and seemed to be enjoying the fact that his every remark – what in the Lord’s name could he be saying? – seemed to make the earl even more uncomfortable. To the visitor’s right was the Lady Isabelle, who was dressed in one of the most splendid gowns Edwin had ever seen, not that he knew much about these things, and he idly wondered why she was wearing it. Despite the fact that she was sitting next to the honoured guest, she was paying very little attention to him and seemed to be trying to catch the eye of the other brother, although that wasn’t stopping her from cramming one delicacy after another into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. To her right were the only two people who seemed happy with their lot: Sir Roger’s handsome face was alight with enthusiasm as he spoke fervently on some subject to Mistress Joanna, who was at the very end of the table. She was listening to him avidly – and Robert won’t like that, thought Edwin – and graciously accepting his attentions as he politely offered her the choicest cuts from each dish that reached them, and refilled her wine-cup.

To the other side of the table Walter de Courteville sat on the earl’s left, although he wasn’t taking much part in the conversation as the earl didn’t seem to have much to say to him, and Sir Geoffrey, who was on his other side, was pointedly ignoring him. Edwin smiled at the sight: the old campaigner obviously had no time for such a weak-looking, weasel-faced fellow. He was engaged in animated conversation with his other neighbour, the old knight whom Edwin had seen him greet earlier; the latter was identified by his burly table-companion as Sir Hugh Fitzjohn, an old comrade with whom Sir Geoffrey had campaigned in France some years ago. The final figure at the high table was the rather portly form of Father Ignatius, and the tension which abounded seemed to have affected him also, for his usually placid face was creased with a frown, and he kept throwing agitated glances at someone towards the centre of the table, although Edwin couldn’t see who. Behind the seated figures scurried the forms of Robert, Martin and Simon, who were performing their usual services, and the visiting earl’s squires, who were waiting upon him and his brother.

Too tired to wonder about the various undercurrents of feeling affecting his betters, and ravenous after his hectic day – the cook had been as short-tempered as ever, making such a fuss about his missing knife that anyone would have thought it was made of gold, and several brawls had broken out over the course of the day which had had to be broken up – Edwin turned his attention to the meal in front of him. The food was good: as soon as the cook had heard about his exalted guests he had made every effort to produce as fine a spread as possible, although the short notice and the large number of people may have hampered some of his efforts. Perhaps that was why he’d been even more bad-tempered than usual. Still, the outcome was worth it, and Edwin tucked into a meat and offal pie while allowing the tales of past campaigns and heroic deeds to wash over him. As soon as he could he escaped the noisy, hot, sweaty, crowded hall and headed outside into the cool air. After a few deep breaths he considered returning, but he wasn’t really in the mood to listen to the bragging of drunken strangers, so he turned to walk down to the village and return home, sighing at the worry which would await him there also.

Martin’s stomach groaned as the earl and his guests finally rose from the table. The stuffed birds and marchpanes looked delicious, and he could hardly wait to try them. He also needed to sit down for a few moments: he was used to being on his feet all day, but all the extra running around had taken its toll, and he still hadn’t had the time to do anything about his boots. The guests at the high table started to disperse and Joanna, who had barely looked up from her conversation with Sir Roger throughout the entire meal, moved towards him. At first he thought she was coming to speak to him, and he tried to prepare something gallant to say, but somehow his tongue wouldn’t form the words properly. As it turned out, she merely wanted to pass him so she could walk over to the kitchen: he overheard her telling Robert that she would fetch some wine in case the Lady Isabelle wanted some later in her chamber. He watched her go, belatedly realising that the visiting squires were helping themselves to all the choicest parts of the meal. He hastened to load a trencher for himself, and then stopped to help Robert, who was trying to pile up two separate lots of food and was starting to overbalance. Martin caught a wafer neatly and cast him an enquiring glance.

‘I’ve sent Simon to fetch wine for our lord’s chamber: Joanna was going to get some for the Lady Isabelle, so he can take some of whatever she chooses, instead of using that terrible swill he found last time.’

Martin nodded. Simon wouldn’t enjoy being sent out while there was still food to be had, so he elbowed de Courteville’s elder squire away from the marchpanes and took an extra piece to keep for the page. Robert had been caught in conversation by a visiting knight, but Martin couldn’t wait and moved away from the visiting squires to sit alone near the door and get some air.

He’d just taken his first huge mouthful of capon when Simon hurtled into the hall, threw himself at him and started to gabble incoherently. Martin caught the jug of wine just before it hit the floor and listened: at first he had no idea what the boy was trying to say, but eventually he caught the words ‘Joanna’, ‘trouble’ and ‘kitchen’, so he cast his meal aside and rose to follow, Simon pulling him urgently by the hand. It was only as he entered the kitchen building and caught sight of two writhing forms in a shadowy corner that he understood.

Joanna was backed against the wall, struggling against the restraining arms of the man who held her. Martin felt fury rush through him and surged forward to intervene, but then recognised the man, and his blood turned to ice as he realised what a dangerous thing he was about to do. Turning to Simon he looked down at the boy and told him to leave: de Courteville hadn’t seen him, so there was no point involving him as well. Simon stepped back out of the building, and Martin took a deep breath as he approached the two reeling, thrashing figures, realising that he still had the wine in his hand. Dear Lord, the man was an earl and answered only to the king. What would his punishment be? But he would stop this whatever the consequences. He could feel his heart beating in his throat. He saw with disgust that de Courteville had one hand pressed over Joanna’s face to stop her crying out, while the other was thrusting at her skirts. She saw him and her eyes pleaded with him to help, even as she fought and scratched at the man holding her. Rage made Martin bold. He stepped forward and dashed the jug of wine in de Courteville’s face.

He was ready with an apology, on the rather thin pretext that he had somehow slipped, but he had no chance to speak. Battle-hardened, the man’s reaction was phenomenally fast: in one movement he brought his fist around and crashed it into the side of Martin’s face, sending him sprawling to the floor as pain exploded in his head. He might be tall, but he hadn’t yet grown to his full strength, while the other was broad and had muscles honed by years of fighting. De Courteville stood over him for a moment and Martin tried to curl up and protect himself from the onslaught which would follow, but the man only looked furiously at the stain spreading over the front of his expensive tunic and stalked off. Crying and wiping tears from her face, Joanna sank to the floor and then turned to help Martin to sit up. He groaned.

‘Are you all right?’