He took them and threw them to a servant. Corbett and Ranulf unhitched their sword belts and hung them carefully on a hook on the wall.

Corbett and Ranulf eased themselves into the chairs, spread their feet and revelled in the fierce warmth from the log fire. A servant brought them posset in pewter goblets with white napkins wrapped round them as the claret had been spiced then heated by a red hot poker. Corbett sipped the wine slowly, savouring each drop as his legs and body thawed out. He felt warm, even drowsy, but did not want to disgrace himself by falling asleep. While Ranulf smacked his lips and crowed with delight, Corbett stared around the darkened solar. It was opulently furnished; woollen cloths and damask hangings covered the walls; the windows were glazed, some of them even tinted; the candelabra held pure beeswax lights – no tallow or cheap oil-lamps here. Corbett felt the carved wooden chair; oak or yew, he reflected, and the same was true of the cupboards and other chairs around the room. Underfoot, the carpets and rugs were of pure wool. As a pageboy hurried to remove his boots, Corbett looked up and saw the black, white and gold of the Gurney arms on a huge shield above the fireplace; beneath this, silver plate glinted and glowed in the candlelight.

Gurney threw another log on the fire. A small pouch of fragrant herbs had been pushed into a split in the log and, as the flames licked the wood, fumes from the hot herbs spread the aroma of summer across the room. Corbett tasted the wine, half-listening to Ranulf's chatter about their journey. On the opposite side of the hearth, Alice watched him closely.

You've changed, she thought. Corbett had always been secretive, taciturn and shy, but now she saw in him a certain hardness; the laughter lines around his mouth were not as pronounced as before and his dark eyes, usually so gentle, had a slightly haunted look.