Ranulf caught the sarcasm in his master's voice and grinned. His master loved little Hugh, or Hugolino, but often described him as a monster, a true son of his father, from his spiked hair to his innate ability to fall into mischief.

'Well, Master, as well as can be expected,' Ranulf replied, glimpsing Maeve coming out through the chancery door. She looked resplendent in a simple white wimple and a long, dark maroon dress clasped at the neck with silver-white bows, rather spoilt by the heavy belt she wore round her swelling waist, which bore most of the keys to the manor chambers. As usual Maeve looked solemn though Ranulf saw the mischief dancing in her eyes.

'You had a pleasant time, Ranulf, in London?'

The servant was going to lie but Maeve caught his glance.

'Yes, Mistress.'

'No excitement or frivolity?'

'Of course not,' Ranulf muttered. 'Just hard work.'

He glanced away but Maeve continued her inquisition. She would find out about Mistress Sempler whether he liked it or not, so Ranulf mumbled some excuse and fled to his own chamber. He washed his face in the lavarium, packed a new set of saddle bags, plucking what possessions he could find from his customarily chaotic chamber, and went down the side stairs out to the front of the manor where a groom had brought fresh horses and a sumpter pony. In the hall Maeve was growing truculent at Corbett's strictures against baiting Ranulf.

'You will miss me?' he asked, changing the conversation abruptly, grabbing her by the hands and pulling her close.

'No,' she teased.

'You'll look after the fencing in the long meadow?'

'No, I'll break it down.'

'And the grange with loose slats?'

Maeve shook her head.

'I'll burn that as well, together with the tithe bam. And I'll tell Father Martin, with his usual litany of complaints about his congregation using the graveyard as a playground, to go hang himself. After that,' she shook her head, 'God knows what I'll do!'