Ranulf reigned in his horse and listened to the sound of the woodland as Maeve had urged him to. He shook his head. He would give a gold piece to hear the sound of the hucksters and coster-mongers of London, the lusty shouts of the apprentices and the raucous bawling of stall-holders. He looked around him. There was too much space here, the air was too fresh and the prospect of hard work imminent. There were no soldiers for Ranulf to draw into a game with his loaded dice or crooked chequer-board. No pretty girls to make eyes at and, above all, no Mistress Sempler, the voluptuous young wife of an ageing woolsmith.

Ranulf smiled like the cat who has drunk the cream. He had spent a pleasant time the previous evening consoling the good lady during her husband's absence. He thought of her white, soft as satin body, nubile and generous as she stood dressed in nothing but her head-dress and gartered hose. He groaned again, cursed softly, and urged his horse up into the grassy area before the manor door, scattering the lazy sheep grazing there.

Ranulf, however, could never be despondent for long: after all, his master was now the landlord of well-stocked bams, granaries, and lush meadows, and Ranulf could always pretend he had been very busy in London and so earn some reward. He licked his lips as he dismounted and assumed a doleful expression. He had rehearsed his speech. He would present matters in their worst light, depicting the toils and tribulations he had endured in pursuing his master's business… yet he had scarcely prepared himself for what happened. Corbett was waiting just inside the oak-panelled hall, cloaked, booted and spurred; his saddle bags, packed and strapped down, were being taken out by a servant. Ranulf expected the worst when he saw the grin on Corbett's face.

'Benedicte, Ranulf!' he exclaimed. I have been waiting. We are off to Godstowe Priory in Oxfordshire. Your son, how is the little cherub?'