father-in-law.” I was stuttering with fright. “He has a ward in France, a young girl. He wants to take her to England, away from the war. She’s been orphaned. He wanted her to have a woman to travel with. We’re on our way to fetch her from the relatives she’s with now, at Douceaix, near Le Mans. That’s all. Please, Master Charpentier!”
His left hand was crushing the muscles of my upper arm painfully, but the vegetable knife was more terrifying. Peering down my nose at it, I could see that it was very sharp indeed. I was carrying my dagger but I knew that I had no chance of reaching it and getting it out of its sheath quickly enough to help me. I wished I had let Brockley come with me. In future (assuming I had a future), I wouldn’t stir a step without him.
Charpentier put his head close to mine, breathing garlic into my face. “Why are you asking after De la Roche?”
“I met him when he came to England. I was asking if you knew of him! I wanted to ask if he was well! That’s all!”
“Is it? Is it? We have had English spies before, asking after De la Roche.”
“I’m not a spy! Oh, really, Master Charpentier! This is ridiculous! Do I look like a spy?”
“How do I know what a spy looks like? If I were sending out spies, I would see that they seemed innocent! As innocent as you, traveling with your father-in-law, who seeks only to take a young girl out of the path of a war!”
“You’re making a mistake,” I gasped. “We’re on our way to visit a Catholic household. Do you intend to murder me here in your kitchen?”
“It is not murder to dispose of a spy.”
I drew breath to scream for Brockley but the black-haired woman (I never found out whether she was Charpentier’s cook or his wife, and didn’t care, either) had moved closer to me and as I opened my mouth, she clapped a powerful palm over it, silencing me. “No noise, my lady. Shall we take her outside, Jean?”
I aimed a kick at Master Charpentier’s shins and brought up my spare hand to wrench at the woman’s wrist. I might as well have attacked a couple of trees. The pair of them were impervious. I don’t know what would have happened next if there had not, just then, been a merciful interruption. There was the sound of men and horses and a voice from the front of the building calling for the innkeeper. Assured, booted feet came ringing along the stone passage, and a young, cool French voice said: “Charpentier? Where in the devil’s name are you? We’re earlier than we thought to be but it’s the first time since I’ve known you that you haven’t come out at a run at the sound of fifteen horses and four pack mules!
Mon Dieu!
What is going on here? Who is this girl?”
“She’s English and she’s asking after Matthew de la Roche,” said Charpentier over his shoulder.
This, apparently, was sufficient explanation. I twisted about and tried to speak and the elegant young man who had appeared in the doorway said: “Never before have I arrived at a hostelry to find the innkeeper about to cut the throat of a young woman in the kitchen. It tends to undermine confidence in the cuisine. Charpentier, I think she wants to say something. I would like to hear it.”
The muffling hand was withdrawn. “I’m a completely innocent traveler from England,” I said angrily. “Not long ago, in my own country, I met a visitor from France called Matthew de la Roche. I simply asked after him—I know he lives somewhere along the Loire. That’s all! And then this man Charpentier attacked me and threatened to kill me!”
“A little extreme, I agree,” said the stranger. He was sophisticated and of some standing, with quantities of embroidery on his dark blue doublet and the matching cloak he wore tossed over one shoulder, and gems upon his sword hilt. I was grateful for his intervention, but for all his gallantry, he didn’t make me feel a great deal better.
As he came indoors, he had removed his dashing high-crowned hat as a
His left hand was crushing the muscles of my upper arm painfully, but the vegetable knife was more terrifying. Peering down my nose at it, I could see that it was very sharp indeed. I was carrying my dagger but I knew that I had no chance of reaching it and getting it out of its sheath quickly enough to help me. I wished I had let Brockley come with me. In future (assuming I had a future), I wouldn’t stir a step without him.
Charpentier put his head close to mine, breathing garlic into my face. “Why are you asking after De la Roche?”
“I met him when he came to England. I was asking if you knew of him! I wanted to ask if he was well! That’s all!”
“Is it? Is it? We have had English spies before, asking after De la Roche.”
“I’m not a spy! Oh, really, Master Charpentier! This is ridiculous! Do I look like a spy?”
“How do I know what a spy looks like? If I were sending out spies, I would see that they seemed innocent! As innocent as you, traveling with your father-in-law, who seeks only to take a young girl out of the path of a war!”
“You’re making a mistake,” I gasped. “We’re on our way to visit a Catholic household. Do you intend to murder me here in your kitchen?”
“It is not murder to dispose of a spy.”
I drew breath to scream for Brockley but the black-haired woman (I never found out whether she was Charpentier’s cook or his wife, and didn’t care, either) had moved closer to me and as I opened my mouth, she clapped a powerful palm over it, silencing me. “No noise, my lady. Shall we take her outside, Jean?”
I aimed a kick at Master Charpentier’s shins and brought up my spare hand to wrench at the woman’s wrist. I might as well have attacked a couple of trees. The pair of them were impervious. I don’t know what would have happened next if there had not, just then, been a merciful interruption. There was the sound of men and horses and a voice from the front of the building calling for the innkeeper. Assured, booted feet came ringing along the stone passage, and a young, cool French voice said: “Charpentier? Where in the devil’s name are you? We’re earlier than we thought to be but it’s the first time since I’ve known you that you haven’t come out at a run at the sound of fifteen horses and four pack mules!
Mon Dieu!
What is going on here? Who is this girl?”
“She’s English and she’s asking after Matthew de la Roche,” said Charpentier over his shoulder.
This, apparently, was sufficient explanation. I twisted about and tried to speak and the elegant young man who had appeared in the doorway said: “Never before have I arrived at a hostelry to find the innkeeper about to cut the throat of a young woman in the kitchen. It tends to undermine confidence in the cuisine. Charpentier, I think she wants to say something. I would like to hear it.”
The muffling hand was withdrawn. “I’m a completely innocent traveler from England,” I said angrily. “Not long ago, in my own country, I met a visitor from France called Matthew de la Roche. I simply asked after him—I know he lives somewhere along the Loire. That’s all! And then this man Charpentier attacked me and threatened to kill me!”
“A little extreme, I agree,” said the stranger. He was sophisticated and of some standing, with quantities of embroidery on his dark blue doublet and the matching cloak he wore tossed over one shoulder, and gems upon his sword hilt. I was grateful for his intervention, but for all his gallantry, he didn’t make me feel a great deal better.
As he came indoors, he had removed his dashing high-crowned hat as a
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