The child had been born months earlier in the depths of winter and Corbett had persuaded Ranulf to give him to some foster-parents in Threadneedle Street. Ranulf had agreed but then changed his mind, taken him back, and promptly lost his son in a tavern. A saucy, heavy-bosomed wench had caught his eye, Ranulf had put the baby down, went to take his pleasure then walked home, forgetting about the little bundle he had entrusted to the tavern-keeper's wife. On Corbett's advice he had subsequently returned the child to his heart-broken foster-parents.

'A good decision,' Ranulf murmured to himself.

He loved the boy but never could remember where he had left him last A squirrel chattered, a bird flew out of a gorse bush. Ranulf's hand went towards his dagger. He felt uneasy in the countryside, missed the city and wished that Corbett would return to their house in Bread Street, but his master's new wife, Maeve, had changed all that. Ranulf groaned to himself. He lusted after most women. In fact, Ranulf found any women of whatever degree or age attractive, if not for seducing, then as a useful target for his good-natured bantering or teasing.

Maeve-app-Llewellyn was different Ranulf feared her. Those chilling blue eyes which seemed to be able to read his every thought; her shrewd management of his master's affairs, be it buying a field or placating that old grey granite-faced King. When Maeve was there Hugh seemed to relax, even smile. Ranulf stirred, easing his aching backside as he urged his horse through the manor gates. She had changed Corbett Oh, his master was still secretive and withdrawn, but more even-tempered, cooler and more calculating. On previous occasions Corbett had worked in the Chancery, accepting individual assignments for the old King. Now all that had changed. Corbett acted as if he loved the intrigue, building up a system of spies which stretched like some huge net from Rome to Avignon, Paris, Lille, Edinburgh and Dublin.