The Prodigal Son by Kate Sedley Page A

appeared from his own chamber when he heard us come in, brought the three of us another beaker of ale apiece and waited until, wrapped in our cloaks, we were settled for the night. Hercules opened one bleary eye, gave me a look, then closed it again with a contented sigh.
    The inn was stuffy in the August heat and one of the shutters had been opened to reveal the moon, like tarnished silver, rising over the shadowy trees. Somewhere an owl hooted, sharp and clear, against the more muffled drumbeat of advancing hooves …
    I sat up abruptly, disturbing my companions.
    â€˜Whassa matter …?’ the squire demanded indistinctly.
    â€˜Listen!’ I hissed. ‘Someone on horseback, approaching the inn.’
    The landlord had also heard it and came out of his chamber, followed by his goodwife, both of them clutching stout-looking staves. I reached for my cudgel just as a voice from outside shouted, ‘Ho there, landlord! Travellers! Open up, I say!’ There was a loud thumping on the door.
    The landlord raised his eyebrows at the rest of us: he couldn’t afford to deny genuine trade. We grouped ourselves around him as he cautiously drew back the bolts.
    He need not have worried. A perfectly respectable, well-dressed man of about my own age entered and courteously doffed his hat. Beyond the open door, in the moonlight, we could see an equally respectable-looking servant, holding his horse.
    The stranger opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, a shocked voice sounded behind us.
    â€˜You! What in the name of God and all His saints are you doing here?’

Four
    I swung round to see who had spoken and was confronted by a tall, thin man with a rather small head perched precariously on top of a long, narrow neck. A pair of slightly bulbous brown eyes were, at this moment, wide with alarm and indignation, and the note of accusation in the surprisingly deep voice was unmistakable. The thinning hair was ruffled, as though the speaker had just risen from bed, a fact confirmed by the loose red velvet robe thrown on anyhow over the crumpled nightshift.
    â€˜
You!
’ he repeated in horrified accents, as though unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
    â€˜Sir Damien!’ the landlord exclaimed apologetically, confirming the gentleman’s identity, which I had already guessed. ‘I’m sorry that you should have been disturbed. A late night traveller, that’s all.’
    The knight took no notice, continuing to glare at the new arrival like a rabbit transfixed by the eyes of a snake.
    The stranger, whom I judged to be a year or so younger than myself and at least half a head shorter, had taken off his cloak, draping it negligently over one arm, and even in the failing light, I could tell that it was obviously fashioned from good broadcloth and lined with sarcenet. The rest of his clothes, including a pair of fine leather boots and a plume of jaunty feathers in his cap, suggested someone of adequate, if not substantial, means, while his general air and way of speaking indicated a person of breeding.
    He, too, had been shocked by this unexpected encounter – he had started violently at the sound of Sir Damien’s voice – but he recovered his poise quicker than the older man.
    â€˜My dear brother-in-law,’ he drawled, ‘what a pleasant surprise. I hadn’t counted on seeing any of the family until tomorrow at the earliest. My sister is well, I hope?’
    Brother-in-law? Sister? This certainly wasn’t Simon Bellknapp who, according to Alderman Foster’s narrative, could only be fifteen or sixteen years of age. Therefore it had to be the renegade; the missing Anthony.
    It was while I was brooding on the unlikelihood of such a coincidence that I realized the worst. God had His finger in the pie again, interfering in my life and manipulating me like one of those wooden puppets on strings that you see at fairs. Of course, as I’ve