The Conqueror by Georgette Heyer

other had good reason for wishing him out of the way. A log of wood had been laid on the second step, and it rolled over when he trod on it. That it had been meant for him he was reasonably sure, and he guessed from it that his ill-wishers were aware of his nightly vigil. He was always the first man to descend the stairway in the morning, and if he had not paused upon the top step, warned by an intuition of danger, he must certainly have pitched down the stair, and broken, if not his neck, at least a leg or an arm.
    He was not surprised therefore when Galet whispered a warning to him one evening before the supper-hour. Galet sat cross-legged on the floor, juggling with some sheep’s bones, and as Raoul passed him he said softly without raising his head or moving his lips: ‘Do not drink tonight, cousin!’
    Raoul heard, but gave no sign. He contrived at supper to empty the contents of his drinking-horn on to the rushes under the table at a moment when all eyes were turned towards the jester, who was performing contortionist feats with his ungainly limbs. Afterwards he pretended to drink from the empty horn, and watching under down-dropped eyelids he thought that he detected satisfaction in the face of Grimbauld du Plessis. A pulse began to beat unpleasantly hard in his throat; he had a feeling of apprehension that was almost a sickness, and the palms of his hands felt damp and cold. He shivered, and blamed the chill draught that swept through the hall. The candles guttered in the sudden gusts of wind, and threw odd shadows. Men’s faces appeared sinister in the uncertain light; all at once Galet’s caperings became macabre, and his shrill voice eldritch. Raoul wished that he would stop, for calamity seemed to brood over the sombre house. He set his teeth, and forced himself to join in the talk at his table, disgusted to find that he was so little the cool intrepid man he would wish to be.
    The Duke went up to his chamber after supper with Guy’s arm thrown round his shoulders. Guy’s light laugh sent a shudder through Raoul; he stared after them, his fingers tightening unconsciously round the narrow end of his drinking-horn. Thus, surely, traitors laughed.
    His right-hand neighbour was yawning. His eyes looked heavy with sleep; he complained in a thick voice of the hard day’s hunting, and lolled over the table like a drunken man. Looking round Raoul saw others similarly mazed. His throat felt parched suddenly. Grimbauld du Plessis was watching him across the room. Raoul got up with a lurch and a stagger, and went with unsteady steps to the stair.
    Grimbauld stood in his path, smiling at him. ‘Watch well, you Friend of the Friendless,’ he mocked.
    Someone sniggered. Raoul blinked owlishly, and put up a hand to rub his eyes . ‘Yes,’ he said stupidly. ‘Watch – watch well. I will – watch well, Grimbauld – du Plessis.’
    Grimbauld laughed, and stepped aside to let him pass. Raoul went stumbling up the stairs with his hands on the rope.
    At the top, and out of sight, he gave a quick look to right and left of him. No one was in the gallery, but he could hear voices in William’s chamber, and knew that Guy of Burgundy was still with the Duke. He went to the edge of the gallery and peeped down through one of the vaulted arches at the hall below. Men were gathering into small groups. Some were dicing, some talking in low voices, and others drowsing with their heads on the table. The servers were still busy clearing away the trestles, and spreading pallets; and presently the Duke’s valet came up the stairs and went into William’s chamber. From the ambry leading into the hall came a muffled clatter of patins in the wash-tub; outside in the court the men-at-arms were still moving about. Raoul wondered whether their mead had been drugged, or whether they, too, were in the pay of the conspirators. There was no sign of Galet; he must have slipped away when the Duke went upstairs.
    Guy came out of the Duke’s