Stormbird by Conn Iggulden

throat, feeling the first tingle of nervousness. The man was confident, where usually he might have expected a certain wariness around wealth and power.
    ‘May I have the honour of knowing your name in return?’ Reuben said, his voice shading into coldness. The soldier did not deserve his courtesy, but there were still too many interested heads turned in his direction.
    ‘Captain Recine of Saumur, Monsieur Moselle. I have orders for your arrest.’
    ‘Pardon? On what charge? This is a mistake, captain, I assure you. The magistrate is inside, in fact. Allow me to take you to him and he will explain …’
    ‘I have my orders, monsieur. An accusation has been made, at département level. You’ll come with me now. You can explain yourself to the judge.’
    Reubenstared at the soldier. The man had dirty hands and his uniform stank, but there was still that unsettling confidence about him. Three more men showed yellow teeth at his back, enjoying the discomfort they were causing. The thought of being forced to go with such men made Reuben begin to sweat.
    ‘I wonder if I can be of help, Monsieur Moselle?’ a voice said at his shoulder.
    He turned to see the figure of Lord York standing there with a glass of wine in his hand. Reuben breathed in relief. The English noble looked like a soldier, with his jutting chin and wide shoulders. The French soldiers were instantly more respectful.
    ‘This … captain is saying I am to be arrested, Lord York,’ Reuben said quickly, deliberately using the title. ‘He has not yet mentioned the charge, but I am certain there has been some sort of mistake.’
    ‘I see. What
is
the charge?’ York said.
    Reuben could see the soldier consider an insolent reply, but then the man shrugged. It was not wise to irritate a man of York’s reputation and influence, at least not for a lowly captain.
    ‘Blasphemy and witchcraft, milord. He’ll have to answer at the court in Nantes.’
    Reuben felt his mouth fall open in surprise.
    ‘Blasphemy and … This is madness, monsieur! Who is my accuser?’
    ‘Not my place to say,’ the soldier replied. He was watching Lord York, fully aware that the man could choose to interfere. Reuben too turned to the Englishman.
    ‘My lord, if you will have them return tomorrow morning, I am certain I can find witnesses and assurances that will reveal this for the falsehood it is.’
    Yorklooked down on him and his eyes glittered in the lamplight.
    ‘It does not strike me as a matter for English law, Monsieur Moselle. This is no business of mine.’
    The captain smiled wider at hearing that. He stepped forward and took Reuben by the arm in a firm grip.
    ‘Begging your indulgence, monsieur. Come with me now. I don’t want to have to drag you.’ The grip grew stronger, giving the lie to his words. Reuben stumbled with it, unable to believe what was happening.
    ‘The magistrate is in my house, captain! Will you at least let me bring him out to you? He will explain it all.’
    ‘It’s not a local matter, monsieur. Why don’t you say something else and give me the pleasure of knocking your teeth into the back of your throat?’
    Reuben shook his head, mute with fear. He was fifty years old and already breathing hard. The violent threat astonished him.
    Richard, Duke of York, watched his host being taken away with something like amusement. He saw his wife come through the crowd to stand at his shoulder, her expression delighted as the elderly man stumbled out through the gardens with his captors.
    ‘I thought this evening would be terribly dull,’ she said. ‘That is the only way to deal with Jews. They grow too bold unless they are reminded of their station. I hope they beat him for his insolence.’
    ‘I’m sure they will, my dear,’ he said, amused.
    In the main hall, they both heard a shriek as the news reached Reuben’s wife. Cecily smiled.
    ‘I think I would like to see the orangery,’ she said, extending her arm for her husband to guide her