“Sir Martin believes Tom Perrill should be my next centenar. And he fears I’ll appoint you, Hook. I can’t imagine why he would think that, can you?”

Hook looked into his lordship’s face. He was tempted to ask about his mother and how well his lordship had known her, but he resisted. “No, lord,” he said humbly instead.

“So when you go to London, Hook, tread carefully. Sir Martin will accompany you.”

“London!”

“I have a summons,” Lord Slayton explained. “I’m required to send my archers to London. Ever been to London?”

“No, my lord.”

“Well, you’re going. I don’t know why, the summons doesn’t say. But my archers are going because the king commands it. And maybe it’s war? I don’t know. But if it is war, Hook, then I don’t want my men killing each other. For God’s sake, Hook, don’t make me hang you.”

“I’ll try not, my lord.”

“Now go. Tell Snoball to come in. Go.”

Hook went.

It was a January day. It was still cold. The sky was low and twilight dark, though it was only mid-morning. At dawn there had been flurries of snow, but it had not settled. There was frost on the thatched roofs and skins of cat ice on the few puddles that had not been trampled into mud. Nick Hook, long-legged and broad-chested and dark-haired and scowling, sat outside the tavern with seven companions, including his brother and the two Perrill brothers. Hook wore knee-high boots with spurs, two pairs of breeches to keep out the cold, a woollen shirt, a padded leather jerkin, and a short linen tunic, which was blazoned with Lord Slayton’s golden crescent moon and three golden stars. All eight men wore leather belts with pouches, long daggers and swords, and all wore the same livery, though a stranger would need to look hard to discern the moon and stars because the colors had faded and the tunics were dirty.