* *
As the sun reached its zenith, the last remaining wisps of cloud vanishing in the heat of noon, Katerina tramped back into camp. Lifting her eyes to absorb the familiar scenes around her, she breathed out: a long, hard sigh. Her tense muscles eased. She had got rid of him, shaken off his overpowering presence. By the castle gatehouse she had convinced the dark stranger with his pitiless eyes of turquoise that she worked in the Earl of Norfolk’s castle, and that, yes, her family were within and she was safe. And he had turned away with a quick nod of instant dismissal. She was glad of it, welcomed it.
Katerina walked towards the circle of patched and stained canvas tents. The troupe, some twenty adults, had set up on a flattish patch of lumpy ground outside the perimeter walls of the castle. The soldiers, patrolling on top of the high wall, would stop and look down on them every so often, watching them practise their acts, or to listen to the music. Huge logs, ashy and blackened, smouldered fitfully within a rough boundary of stones; it was the children’s responsibility to collect up enough wood to keep the camp-fire burning day and night, but at the moment most of the children were rushing around, their screams high-pitched and giggling, trying to hide from each other in an extended game of tig.
Over to the right, nearest to the castle moat, the musicians of the troupe ran through their repertoire, Galen’s thin, reedy frame thumping the tight animal skin of his drum, the beat thumping solidly, rhythmically through the air. The other musicians joined in gradually with their pipes, whistles and fiddles. Thomas was on the bagpipes, with old Henry turning the clanking handle of the hurdy-gurdy. The resulting music was invigorating, overlaid with dramatic intensity, designed to excite the audience with the promise of the exhilarating entertainment to come.
Katerina’s heart lifted at the sight of them; within the troupe, she had a place, a valued role. Her act alone had gained the group a certain fame, and, instead of knocking on doors, they were specifically requested to perform for some of the highest-ranking nobles in the land. There was no chance she would be recognised; as long as she maintained a low profile during the day, her elaborate costume and mask would keep her true identity a secret.
And yet, today, she had been exposed, her disguise stripped bare in the most brutal way, beaten by a man and floored completely. A niggle of dissatisfaction lodged firmly in her gut. How had she let herself be caught like that? She never would have believed that he would scramble up the tree after her! A pair of twinkling turquoise eyes, smug, victorious, barged into her mind’s eye, and she closed her eyes, a futile attempt to rid herself of the unsettling image.
A tent flap, spotted with black mould, flapped back. The top of a greasy head appeared, followed by huge shoulders, a vast belly straining against the coarse weave of a tunic. It was John: the leader of the troupe, the man who doled out the coin at the end of every performance, the man who decided whether their skills were good enough, whether they stayed or left.
‘You took your time,’ he growled, spotting Katerina as he straightened up. ‘Get out of my way!’ he yelled at one of the children who sprinted, shrieking, pursued by another child across his feet. He kicked out, but the children were too fast to feel the imprint of his boot. ‘Waleran’s been back for ages!’ Set in the protruding dirty-white of his eyes, his dark-brown irises seemed very small.
‘Is he here? Is he all right?’ She glanced around the camp, seeking her friend. Waleran was safe!
‘Fine. The soldiers roughed him up a bit, but no harm done,’ John growled. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I went to look for him, became lost in the forest.’ She wriggled her shoulders unconsciously, remembering the press of the man’s body against her own as he grabbed her, held her. Warmth surged across her belly at the memory, stirred deep; she pressed cool palms to her hot cheeks.
‘Well, you’d better start practising,’ John said. The bluish-grey skin on his cheeks pulled slack, puffy around his jawbone. ‘We’re performing tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ Katerina replied, shocked. ‘Surely we all need a day’s rest? Our last performance was only a night ago!’ She refused to be cowed by John’s bullying behaviour. He needed her, and her performance, and that knowledge gave her a semblance of power.
‘Aye, tonight, cloth-ears,’ John cackled at her. ‘For the Earl of Norfolk himself. He has unexpected guests, important ones, so you’d better start practising now. We can’t afford any mistakes; it has to be perfect.’ He turned away, going over to yell at one of the musicians who continually blew a wrong note.
Katerina wilted with exhaustion. Her whole body ached from the encounter in the forest; the last thing she wanted to do was perform this evening. But she had little choice in the matter; John was her employer, the man who paid out the wages and decided who was in, or out, of the troupe. It wouldn’t do to fall on the wrong side of his temper. She had no wish to be kicked out; the troupe was her livelihood, her life. Without it, she wouldn’t survive.
* * *
Lussac followed Philippe’s rounded shoulders up the spiralling staircase, the soles of his calf-leather boots making little sound on the worn limestone steps. A riot of gold banding against limpid blue, the glowing translucency of the evening sky pushed through the thin arrow slits set at intervals into the curve of the outer wall, shedding a feeble light into the stairwell. The day slunk quickly into twilight, but the hours of daylight would grow shorter still; they had yet to reach mid-winter.
After leaving the maid at the gatehouse, Lussac hadn’t had to travel far to catch up with the Queen and her soldiers—she had already arrived at the castle with her entourage, the Earl of Norfolk welcoming her with open arms. As one of her strongest allies, he was as keen as the Queen to see the King deposed, and the King’s favourite, Hugh le Despenser, banished for good.
‘God’s teeth! How much further?’ Up ahead, in the gloom, Philippe caught his toe on a shallow step and stumbled. His voice carried the faint whine of irritation; the long day and lack of decent food were beginning to take their toll on Lussac’s companion.
‘Top floor.’ The servant, a boy of about twelve, turned and grinned down at them. ‘The chambers up here are the best in the castle.’
‘They’d better be,’ grumbled Philippe, a sheen of sweat over his florid cheeks. As the servant led the two men into the chamber, set at the top of one of the square towers, Philippe looked around in delight. Two beds, canopied with velvet, stood at opposite sides of the room, piled high with fresh linens and furs. The scent of clean straw from the newly stuffed mattresses filled the space, as did the ashy smell from the glowing charcoal brazier in the corner. The servant busied himself lighting the candles from the brazier, setting them into stone niches and metal candleholders around the walls.
‘This is Heaven.’ Philippe smiled, his gaze alighting on the wooden bath behind an embroidered screen.
The boy followed his look. ‘I’ll fetch the hot water for you, my lord.’
‘By God, we’ll sleep well tonight.’ Philippe clapped Lussac on the shoulder, throwing his leather bags down by one of the beds. ‘I can’t wait to rid myself of this infernal armour.’ He grabbed at the heavy buckle of his sword belt, flinging both sword and belt in a jumble at the side of the bed.
‘I suggest you take the first bath, you stink to high heaven,’ Lussac chuckled, moving over to the window. No arrow slits, but narrow, rectangular windows topped with a shallow arch, one pair set into each of the thick stone walls. Hand-blown glass, undulating, formed an effective barrier against the cold outside. Despite the dimming light, he could still discern several features of the landscape:
