The Prodigal Son by Kate Sedley

companions came to bed. Hercules was happily gnawing on a mutton bone, with which the landlord had thoughtfully provided him, so I decided to take Master Litton’s hint, and went out to the stables.
    These were a couple of stalls at one side of the inn, the first containing a bony nag, plainly belonging to the premises; which meant that the thoroughbred next door had to be the property of Sir Damien Chauntermerle, even had the fact not been made self-evident by the three men seated amongst the straw, playing at dice.
    I introduced myself and was immediately welcomed into the circle with the blunt hope that I had sufficient money to cover my losses. I answered cheerfully that I didn’t expect to lose, at which they all laughed so heartily that I insisted on inspecting the dice, suspecting them to be loaded. They had not been tampered with, however, and after several games of raffle and two of hazard, I realized that, in the groom, I was up against a master thrower, whose spin on the dice could produce an almost endless run of sixes. When I had lost more than I could afford, I at last called a halt, a move heartily endorsed by the squire and the, by now, nearly penniless page. The groom just grinned good-naturedly and gathered up his winnings. The rest of us leaned back against the bales of straw and reckoned up our losses, commiserating with each other as we did so.
    I nodded towards the horse and the saddle of tooled leather, hung on a nail at the back of the stall. There was also a richly embroidered saddle blanket and some of the harness fittings looked to be of gold.
    â€˜A wealthy man, your master,’ I commented.
    The squire laughed and the other two gave knowing grins.
    â€˜He is now,’ the former agreed. ‘But ten years ago, it was a different story. Poor as a church mouse, was our Sir Damien. Kewstoke Hall was falling into disrepair; the roof was leaking, the rats were gnawing away at the foundations, and those of us who stayed with him did so because our fathers had worked for his all their lives and it was our home as much as his. Still, he’s been a good master and not stinted those of us who remained since he became rich.’ The other two nodded their approval of his words.
    â€˜How did that happen?’ I asked. ‘And where is Kewstoke Hall?’
    â€˜Away to the north-west of here, near the coast. As to the upturn in his fortune, death and remarriage, my lad.’ The squire thumped me on the back, reiterating, ‘Death and remarriage. His first wife died and he got wedded again, only this time he was careful to marry money and, of course, youth. The first time, when he was young and feckless, was for love. The second time was for security and comfort.’
    â€˜Who was the lucky – and presumably rich – young lady?’
    â€˜As a matter of fact, the daughter of a widow who lives in these parts. Ursula Bellknapp of Croxcombe Manor.’
    â€˜Bellknapp? Of Croxcombe Manor?’ I tried not to sound too interested. ‘Isn’t that somewhere near Wells?’
    â€˜Not many miles distant, yes. Sir Damien
was
thinking of paying a visit there before returning home, so he could give Lady Chauntermerle an account of her mother’s health, but … but …’
    â€˜He decided against it,’ said the page with a giggle.
    â€˜They don’t get on?’ I suggested.
    â€˜We-ell, let’s just say Dame Bellknapp can be – er – difficult,’ the groom smirked, rattling the dice and looking hopefully at the rest of us.
    We hastily declined another game and scrambled to our feet, stretching and yawning and generally intimating that it was time for bed.
    He called us cowards and spoilsports, but grinned good-naturedly and wished us goodnight. He was bedding down in the stable with his master’s precious horse.
    The landlord had damped down the fire in the aleroom, but it was still giving out a comfortable heat. He