monstrosity sat upon your greasy locks, at one point was my hat,” Armand pointed out with dignity. “Una made it for me.”
Fulcher removed his hat and gazed down at it. “I love this ’at,” he said sorrowfully. “Best ’at I ever ’ad. Now you tell me it was made by a princess, it sorta makes sense.”
“Well, you needn’t look like that,” said Armand. “I don’t want it back!”
Fulcher’s expression brightened. “You don’t?”
“Certainly not!”
After Armand had picked out some of the most distinctive pieces from his treasure collection and Fulcher inspected them before stuffing them in a sack, they made their way down from the attics together.
“How comes you never told me you’d got a great big place like this, tucked away waiting for you?” Fulcher commented in an injured tone. “All these years I knowed you and you been keeping secrets from me.”
“You never asked,” Armand retorted. “Besides, I only inherited it four years ago. I think we’d had a falling out at the time over some money.”
Fulcher’s frown cleared. “Oh,” he said without rancor. “That was that time you flung off ’ome to cool your ’eels. Makes sense.”
Armand paused, turning toward him. “How did you find me, then?”
“Followed you, didn’t I.”
“So, it was you following us? I thought there was someone …,” he said, trailing off. Of course, he’d put that down to Otho in the end.
“I weren’t the only one,” Fulcher snorted. “There was at least two ovvers.”
“Two?” Armand was startled.
Fulcher nodded. “One of ’em was a right shadowy bastard. Slipped in and out of view. I barely caught glimpses of him. Just when I fort he’d backed off, I’d catch sight of ’im again. Black ’ood he wore. Changed his ’orses regular. For a while I ’ad the notion he weren’t even the same body every time I caught sight of ’im, but …” Fulcher scratched his chin. “I’d started to get the wind up by then, so I dunno. Seemed like a professional to me.”
“Professional what?”
Fulcher looked cagey. “Scout mebbe. Or assassin.”
Armand expression hardened. “I can’t think why either should be on my tail.”
“What about your good lady wife?” Fulcher suggested lightly.
Armand was alarmed. “Why the hells should they be?”
Fulcher threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger, my friend,” he said hastily.
Armand ignored him, swinging around at the foot of the stairs. “You said two others?”
“S’right,” Fulcher said, lolling against the bannister. “They didn’t seem to be travelin’ togevver or nuffink. Oh, and the second party ’ad a Novern accent.”
“Northern?” Armand’s spine stiffened.
Fulcher nodded. I ’eard ’im talkin’ to a stable lad one time. Soft-spoken he was, but you could ’ear it all the same. Unmistakable.”
*
Armand was sufficiently disturbed by this piece of information to seek out Otho that afternoon. He found him directing Peter as to some fencing repairs that needed doing in the orchard.
“Have you been working at that fencing all morning?” Armand asked the lad pointedly. Peter nodded, round-eyed and apprehensive. “You haven’t seen anyone skulking around the place?”
“No, sir,” he replied, with a puzzled frown.
“If you do, I want to hear about it. Immediately.”
Peter nodded and made off with his tools as Otho gave Armand a sardonic look. “You surely don’t believe that fine friend of yours’s story? I caught him red-handed. He was the mysterious figure skulking in the bushes and none other.”
Armand ignored this. “If a party of Northerners was following us from Caer-Lyoness to Derring, who do you suppose they would be?”
Otho gave a start. “What? Northerners you say?”
Armand nodded. “A day behind us at most.”
“They’re nothing to do with me,” Otho said aggrievedly. “If that’s what you’re thinking!”
“It wasn’t,” Armand responded dampeningly. “Now answer the question, for I don’t want to put it to your sister.”
Otho folded his arms and regarded him steadily a moment before he answered with a shrug. “Rebels I suppose,” he said gruffly. “It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve sought her out. Why do you think I wanted to put her in a convent where she’ll be anonymous? She’ll know no peace now she’s no longer under lock and key.”
“I didn’t know you did want to put her in a convent,” Armand replied dampeningly. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Are you actually suggesting Wymer should have kept her under house arrest for the rest of her life?” His tone was cutting.
“He was mad to marry her off,” Otho said bleakly. “Surely you can see that. This whole scheme was doomed from the outset.”
“Gods, you’re a miserable bastard, Otho,” Armand responded