Belaset's Daughter - By Feona J Hamilton Page 0,67

impossible the fellow would be a drivelling wreck before he reached anyone with authority. Who would believe what he said then, if he was in any fit state to speak at all?

"Never mind," said de Tourney. "Go from me, and forget what we have said. I must find another way."

"Yes, my lord," said the man, almost tripping over himself in his eagerness to leave, before de Tourney changed his mind again. He gathered up all the writing materials, and stuffed them back into the satchel in which they had been brought. Bowing, and muttering BOSON BOOKS

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his thanks, he backed towards the door, and opened it so quickly that he knocked his own head. Still bowing, he left the room and the door banged shut behind him.

De Tourney stood undecided for a minute, trying to think who could best be trusted with such an errand. Then he had it: the sergeant-at-arms, eager to regain his lord’s high opinion, was the ideal man! He would get a message to de Montfort’s side, whatever the cost to himself, if it would wipe the slate clean. Pleased with himself, de Tourney gave a satisfied nod and strode from the room. He would send his secretary to fetch the man and then he would tell him where to go and what to say. No-one else should know of it but the secretary and his chosen messenger.

The sergeant-at-arms was sitting on a bench with a large mug of ale in front of him, when the secretary finally tracked him down. He had been able to calm himself and salve his bruised ego by shouting at a stable lad who had made his horse shy unexpectedly. The horse had helped by stepping on the lad’s foot, which had amused the sergeant so thoroughly that he had felt quite like his old self. The final touch had been finding two of his good friends about to enjoy some of the monastic hospitality, happily provided by someone from the Priory kitchens. He had been just in time to join them.

"Ah!" said the secretary, catching sight of his quarry. He placed himself in front of the sergeant-at-arms, who was taking a good swallow of ale.

"My master, Sir Roger de Tourney, bids you come to his chambers," said the secretary.

The sergeant-at-arms scowled.

"I have just left your master," he said.

"Then you are ordered to his chambers again," said the secretary.

The sergeant-at-arms looked at his ale. It had tasted wonderful much smoother than

the rough brew with which he usually slaked his thirst.

"Do you know what this is about?" he demanded.

The other man shrugged.

"I am not privy to my lord’s thoughts," he said, disdainfully. "Nor would I discuss them with you if I were."

He turned and walked away, not bothering to look back, as the sergeant-at-arms started from his seat with an angry oath. One of the others grasped his arm.

"Do not waste your anger on him," he said. "The man would fall at the force of your breath, and you would never get the chance of a proper fight. Save your energy for a worthier opponent!"

"Well, I’ll finish my ale before I go running after the wretch," said the sergeant-at-arms, crossly. He up-ended the mug and gulped down its contents without pausing for breath, then flung it on to the bench behind him. Grinning and sketching a mock bow to his companions, he swaggered away from them, back to de Tourney’s presence. The fumes of BOSON BOOKS

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the ale, stronger than he was used to, swam pleasingly through his brain, making the world seem to rock slightly, before settling back on its normal axis.

He was ready for anything that Sir Roger de Tourney might want of him, now. Buoyed up by his alcohol-induced courage, he knocked on de Tourney’s door. Sir Roger opened the door himself and the sergeant-at-arms stepped into the room.

"I have need of a messenger to ride to London," said de Tourney. "I must have someone whom I can trust to deliver a message to the right man and not to blab to any other, no matter what the cost, or the difficulty."

The sergeant-at-arms drew himself up.

"I am your messenger, my lord," he said. "As true and brave as any you might see in this place."

"And as good at drinking ale!" said de Tourney, wrinkling his nose, as the fumes reached it. "Are you in fit state to ride?"

"My lord!" said the sergeant-at-arms, reproachfully.

De Tourney laughed.

"Well, your horse is no doubt able to cope with your balance," he said