Belaset's Daughter - By Feona J Hamilton Page 0,66

within inches of his sergeant-at-arms’. The man looked straight ahead, and blinked nervously.

"Well, answer me, man!" roared de Tourney.

"I have no answer, my lord," muttered the man.

The group who had ridden with him began to slink away, leading their horses back to the stables. De Tourney let them go, knowing that the one at whom he raged would salve his wounded ego by raging at them in his turn.

"You will see to your horse, and then come to my chambers!" said de Tourney, lowering his voice with an effort. He turned and strode off. The sergeant-at-arms watched him go, wishing he had the nerve to escape himself. Any mistake by one of his men met harsh punishment from de Tourney, generally in the form of a beating. Nevertheless, de Tourney was not one to bear grudges. Once the punishment was meted out, it closed the matter. Loyalty was what de Tourney prized most: failure, provided a man had done his best, could be forgiven; betraying a trust, never. Well, he had better see to his horse, then take his punishment. The quicker he was there, the quicker it would be over.

He grabbed the horse’s reins, and shambled off in the direction of the stables. Once there, he kicked and cursed the others in his group, and made one whom he caught grinning look after his horse for him. Then, feeling that his ego was less bruised, he went to Sir Roger where he

was not, as he had feared, soundly beaten, but subjected to a tirade, followed by a sudden fist in the face which made his nose bleed, and then dismissed.

After the sergeant-at-arms had gone, de Tourney paced up and down, cursing his ill-fortune. He had actually had Judith in his custody, and yet she had escaped again, as she had from young de Montfort. The woman was as clever as her reputation made her to be but her companion seemed less subtle. As for Jervis FitzHugh, heaven only knew what he was about, but he was certainly more dangerous than de Tourney had thought.

Not an empty-headed young gallant, simply engaged in turning Madeleine’s head with his extravagant compliments, then, but where lay his allegiance? With the King? Or with de Montfort?

He opened the door and shouted for a servant.

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Belaset’s Daughter

"Where is my secretary?" demanded de Tourney. "Find him and bid him come to me at once!"

The man ducked his head and scuttled off. In less than two minutes there was a knock, and de Tourney’s secretary entered. The young man looked apprehensive. No doubt the servant, knowing of his master’s anger, had warned the secretary to prepare him for another outburst.

"I need a message written and taken to London," said de Tourney. "Can you arrange a messenger, without alerting the whole Court?"

"Indeed, my lord," said his secretary, bowing. He flushed slightly, offended that Sir Roger should think him likely to be so indiscreet. Had he not worked for this master for three years, now?

"I do not doubt your ability to do so," said de Tourney, noting the flush. "But we must be careful one word of this in the wrong ears, and we will all suffer."

"I understand, my lord," said the secretary, still wooden-faced.

De Tourney shrugged slightly. If the man decided to take offence, well, let him. As long as he carried out his duties, and got a warning message to someone in de Montfort’s supporters, so that this Judith could be taken care of and FitzHugh, too,

he

decided. If

FitzHugh was prevented from contacting anyone ever again, it would not matter whose side he was on.

The secretary had been preparing to write. He sat at a table, with parchment in front of him, quill already dipped in the small pot of ink which completed the equipment that he carried everywhere. He looked up at de Tourney and waited.

"Wait!" said de Tourney, suddenly. "Put down your pen, and listen. A written message is too dangerous. You shall go yourself, with a verbal message to deliver, and a ring to prove that you come from me."

"But but where am I to go, Sir Roger?" faltered the secretary. "To whom shall I deliver this message?"

His fear was so palpable that it was comic. De Tourney had a sudden vision of his secretary, a poor figure at any outdoor pursuit, and more used to sitting quietly in a warm room, poring over manuscripts this weakling, galloping across unknown countryside to deliver a message to a place full of soldiers. No, no it was