piebald – large black and white patches. A kirtle in such a pattern would certainly command attention. Mine and everyone else’s.’
‘I had better have one made then.’
He laughed at the notion, his naturally sunny temper restored. When he turned back to Miles, she heard him begin a tale about the Crusade, which involved sufficient gore to keep the
deputy’s horrified attention until the meal was over. However, when the music began, she felt Miles’s eyes on her again; drink had made him indiscreet in his ogling. She hastened to
engage him in conversation, so he would at least have a reason for looking at her.
‘Tell us more about your underground stream,’ she said. The other guests pulled their attention away from the music to listen. Avenel and Fitzmartin were sneeringly sceptical, and
Gwenllian hoped Miles’s theory was right, just to wipe the smiles off their faces.
‘As I said, it is beneath Mayor Rupe’s wood,’ replied Miles, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. ‘I shall survey it again in the next day or so, and then we shall sink a
well. Our town will never lack fresh water again.’
‘That wood has always been boggy,’ said Kediour. ‘Yet I doubt it holds a stream, even so. The underlying rock is not the right type to support that sort of feature.’
‘Did you mention using hazel twigs?’ asked Gwenllian, before they could argue.
‘My mother swore by them,’ replied Miles, beaming lovingly at her.
‘So she
was
a witch,’ drawled Fitzmartin, exchanging a grin with his sheriff. ‘There is a sorceress’s whelp in a position of power at Carmarthen!’
‘She was a good lady,’ growled Cole, although he had never met her and aimed only to defend his castle from insults. ‘And I defy any man to—’
‘Your destrier seemed lame today, Symon,’ interrupted Kediour, earning a grateful look from Gwenllian. ‘It is the drought – it has rendered the roads unusually hard for
hoofs.’
‘Lame?’ asked Cole in alarm. He loved his warhorse. ‘Are you sure?’
‘A knight oblivious to the needs of his mount,’ said Fitzmartin censoriously. ‘King John will be interested to hear that.’
‘Will he?’ asked Chaplain Philip, sober and serious in his dark habit. ‘I would have thought he had more urgent matters to consider as regards Carmarthen.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Miles testily.
Philip looked away. ‘The cattle thieves,’ he replied, although Gwenllian could tell he was lying, and it had been some other matter to which he had alluded. ‘His Majesty will
be more concerned about them than the constable’s care of his animals.’
‘He will indeed,’ agreed Avenel slyly. ‘Especially when he hears that they are still at large after a hunt lasting three weeks.’
Gwenllian saw a glance pass between him and Philip. Had the chaplain been telling tales, encouraging Avenel to think badly of her husband? She would not put it past him. Philip was a malcontent,
only happy when he was causing trouble. Then she became aware that she was not the only one who had seen the exchange. Malicious satisfaction flashed in Rupe’s eyes, and it occurred to her
that he might have encouraged Philip’s treachery. The mayor would, after all, lose the next election because of Cole. What better revenge than to have him dismissed?
The evening was one of the longest and most awkward Gwenllian could ever remember spending. Tiredness rendered Cole unusually irritable, and his temper was not improved by the
attention Miles kept paying her. Avenel and Fitzmartin were critical and argumentative, and Philip’s tongue wagged constantly. Gwenllian was grateful to Kediour, Odo and Hilde, who quelled
many a burgeoning spat. Kediour flung priestly reproaches at anyone speaking intemperately, while Odo and Hilde kept up a flow of innocuous chatter to which no one could take exception.
‘Shall we have some more music?’ asked Odo, when even he had run out of bland
‘I had better have one made then.’
He laughed at the notion, his naturally sunny temper restored. When he turned back to Miles, she heard him begin a tale about the Crusade, which involved sufficient gore to keep the
deputy’s horrified attention until the meal was over. However, when the music began, she felt Miles’s eyes on her again; drink had made him indiscreet in his ogling. She hastened to
engage him in conversation, so he would at least have a reason for looking at her.
‘Tell us more about your underground stream,’ she said. The other guests pulled their attention away from the music to listen. Avenel and Fitzmartin were sneeringly sceptical, and
Gwenllian hoped Miles’s theory was right, just to wipe the smiles off their faces.
‘As I said, it is beneath Mayor Rupe’s wood,’ replied Miles, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. ‘I shall survey it again in the next day or so, and then we shall sink a
well. Our town will never lack fresh water again.’
‘That wood has always been boggy,’ said Kediour. ‘Yet I doubt it holds a stream, even so. The underlying rock is not the right type to support that sort of feature.’
‘Did you mention using hazel twigs?’ asked Gwenllian, before they could argue.
‘My mother swore by them,’ replied Miles, beaming lovingly at her.
‘So she
was
a witch,’ drawled Fitzmartin, exchanging a grin with his sheriff. ‘There is a sorceress’s whelp in a position of power at Carmarthen!’
‘She was a good lady,’ growled Cole, although he had never met her and aimed only to defend his castle from insults. ‘And I defy any man to—’
‘Your destrier seemed lame today, Symon,’ interrupted Kediour, earning a grateful look from Gwenllian. ‘It is the drought – it has rendered the roads unusually hard for
hoofs.’
‘Lame?’ asked Cole in alarm. He loved his warhorse. ‘Are you sure?’
‘A knight oblivious to the needs of his mount,’ said Fitzmartin censoriously. ‘King John will be interested to hear that.’
‘Will he?’ asked Chaplain Philip, sober and serious in his dark habit. ‘I would have thought he had more urgent matters to consider as regards Carmarthen.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Miles testily.
Philip looked away. ‘The cattle thieves,’ he replied, although Gwenllian could tell he was lying, and it had been some other matter to which he had alluded. ‘His Majesty will
be more concerned about them than the constable’s care of his animals.’
‘He will indeed,’ agreed Avenel slyly. ‘Especially when he hears that they are still at large after a hunt lasting three weeks.’
Gwenllian saw a glance pass between him and Philip. Had the chaplain been telling tales, encouraging Avenel to think badly of her husband? She would not put it past him. Philip was a malcontent,
only happy when he was causing trouble. Then she became aware that she was not the only one who had seen the exchange. Malicious satisfaction flashed in Rupe’s eyes, and it occurred to her
that he might have encouraged Philip’s treachery. The mayor would, after all, lose the next election because of Cole. What better revenge than to have him dismissed?
The evening was one of the longest and most awkward Gwenllian could ever remember spending. Tiredness rendered Cole unusually irritable, and his temper was not improved by the
attention Miles kept paying her. Avenel and Fitzmartin were critical and argumentative, and Philip’s tongue wagged constantly. Gwenllian was grateful to Kediour, Odo and Hilde, who quelled
many a burgeoning spat. Kediour flung priestly reproaches at anyone speaking intemperately, while Odo and Hilde kept up a flow of innocuous chatter to which no one could take exception.
‘Shall we have some more music?’ asked Odo, when even he had run out of bland
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