“I have long suspected my vassal Bon de Savrille, Lord of Breakston by some fool’s decision, of having something to hide from his king. He has not traveled to me in more than a score moons, and he always gives the excuse of aught such as a bad crop, or reavers on the loose, for why he doesn’t come. At the last, ’twas that he’d injured a leg and couldn’t ride the distance. I bid you seek him out and learn what you can of him, and whether he should be trusted. I do not wish him to know you are my man, however, so take care how you present yourself.

“And as you travel to Breakston, you will cross the lands of Langumont. Lord Merle Lareaux of Langumont, as you mayhap are aware, is the one who came upon the scene of your father’s death. You must speak with him.”

Dirick could barely contain his satisfaction and relief at being commanded by his king to do the very thing he’d planned to plead for. “Aye, my lord. And what of the other instances of this slaughtering mad man? Are there others I should speak with as well?”

“I shall have news sent to you at Langumont, as my man Dwain travels to Lederwyth to visit with a merchant who came upon the last scene. Of the first instance…’twas nearly two summers past, and the man who found the victims is dead of the pox. He will be no help to you.”

“Very well, my lord. Now, if you will, as you have provided me with satisfaction for belly and mind, I will beg leave and seek a pallet. It will be a long ride to Langumont and Breakston, and I am weary in both body and spirit.”

Eleanor’s dulcet tones interrupted any response her husband may have intended. “But Christ’s Mass is on the morrow, Dirick. By now the ladies have heard of your return, and they will be sore disappointed to be cheated of your dance and song at the feast.”