Report on the affray at Bruges on the XIVth day of November, in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward III.
Item, the men who attacked her Grace the queen have not been found. It is likely that they fled the city soon after the attack.
Item, it seems probable that the musicians, who left the burgemeester’s house without hindrance, warned the men known as the Pilgrims that her Grace was about to depart. Thus the Pilgrims were able to ambush the queen’s party en route rather than attack the house as originally planned. The musicians too have disappeared without trace.
Item, the League of Three have now agreed to support the marriage of the Count of Flanders to Princess Isabella. The betrothal arrangements can proceed as planned. There is a risk that the conspirators will see this marriage as a threat to their own plans. I recommend that both the count and the princess be closely guarded at all times.
Item, the whereabouts of the fugitive William Blyth are unknown, but he is probably in or near Bruges. It is possible that he too is receiving protection from the Pilgrims. The banker Oppicius Adornes has promised to try to locate Blyth, and also to use his influence in the exchanges to make it more difficult for Blyth to raise money.
Item, information received from the Knights of Saint John strongly suggests that the Grand Prior of England, Brother Philip de Thame, is also implicated in the conspiracy. I recommend that he be watched and, if necessary, put to the question.
Item, my conclusion is that the conspiracy, whose existence we first discovered in the summer, is as strong as ever. All possible efforts must be made to eradicate it.
Simon Merrivale, heraldus
‘Phew!’ said Alice Bedingfield. ‘The stench out there is worse than London.’
The air in Merrivale’s chambers smelled of candle wax and newly sawn wood and, wafting in from outside, salt water and sewage. A small town was springing up along a low ridge outside the walls of Calais, complete with houses for the nobles and knights, shops, taverns and a marketplace. Some wit had christened the settlement Villeneuve-la-Hardie, the brave new town. The archers and Welsh spearmen lived in huts on the lower slopes of the ridge where they mostly stayed dry, except for days when the spring tides came in across the marshes and flooded their huts, and also the latrines. Days like today.
Tiphaine had gone to the market, taking the herald’s manservant Mauro with her. Merrivale looked up. ‘How may I be of service, Alice?’
‘Her Grace wishes to see you,’ the lady-in-waiting said, smiling. ‘I’ll take you to her now, if you like.’
The herald frowned. ‘I have just been summoned to the king.’
‘She knows. She wants to see you first.’
Merrivale rose to his feet, reaching for his tabard. ‘Don’t look so put out,’ said the lady-in-waiting. ‘After all, this gives you a chance to spend a few minutes in my company, doesn’t it?’
‘And no man could refuse such a pleasure,’ said Merrivale. ‘How are you, Alice? Recovered, I hope?’
She smiled again. ‘I am my old self, for better or worse.’ The smile faded a little. ‘It was the shock of it all. When the crossbows began to shoot, I thought my heart would stop. How did you remain so calm?’
‘You get used to it,’ said Merrivale.
‘Do you? I’m not sure that is a good thing.’
‘Neither am I.’
‘You could give it all up, Simon. You are owed far more than you receive for your services, you know that. The king would give you a fine manor somewhere, if you asked him. You could marry, settle down, raise a family to carry on your name. Have you never thought of that?’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘To be honest, Alice, the idea of settling down is completely foreign to me.’
Her smile faded a little. ‘What a pity,’ she said. ‘Come. We must not keep the queen waiting.’
The queen was in her painted chamber in the King’s House, sitting in a high-backed chair and propped up with cushions. Unsurprisingly for a woman who had given birth to ten children, she suffered from back pains, and the journey to and from Bruges had made these worse.
‘I have not thanked you properly for your services,’ she said as Merrivale entered the room. ‘Without your perception and prompt action in Bruges, we would have been trapped in the burgemeester’s house with little chance of escape.’
Merrivale bowed. ‘The Demoiselle de Tesson is the one to thank, your Grace. It was she who spotted the musician.’
‘Yes. I like your little demoiselle. I have a fondness for waifs and strays.’
‘Your pardon, your Grace, but she is not my demoiselle.’
‘Isn’t she? Do you deny that she is sharing your bed?’
Ever since the death of her former lover, burned to death slowly in a fire she had deliberately started, Tiphaine suffered from nightmares. Time and time again she watched Rollond de Brus die; sometimes, she was sucked down into the burning pit of coal along with him. When she awoke, sweating and shaking and physically sick, she needed someone to cling to. Merrivale never told her how badly he himself slept, knowing what was happening in her dreams.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not deny it.’
Alice Bedingfield stuck out her lower lip. ‘Then you have a responsibility for her,’ the queen said briskly. ‘What do you intend to do?’
‘With the greatest of respect, your Grace, I don’t think the decision is mine to make.’
‘What a thoroughly unsatisfactory answer. Why did the Pilgrims want to kill me? To stop the betrothal?’
‘Probably, but I suspect there is more to it. Your death would also have robbed the king of his most trusted councillor.’
There was a long pause. ‘This conspirator,’ she said. ‘The one you call the man from the north. You think he is a member of the royal household.’
‘I would go further, your Grace,’ he said quietly. ‘I believe it is someone very close to the king, someone he knows well and trusts.’
‘Have you told him so?’
‘No, your Grace.’
‘Then don’t, not until you have gathered your proofs and are certain beyond doubt. Any personal betrayal touches the king deeply. He is loyal to a fault and expects it in return. I still remember his grief when my uncle John of Hainault crossed over to France. He trusted John, and that wound took a long time to heal. I want to be absolutely certain we have the right man. Is that clear?’
Her loyalty to the king was matched only by her fierce protectiveness of him. Merrivale bowed again. ‘I understand, your Grace.’
‘Good. Now, it is time you attended on the king. Show him the way, Bedingfield, if you please.’
‘Let’s go over this again,’ said King Edward III of England. ‘Just to make certain everyone understands the plan, Thomas.’
Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick and marshal of England, pointed to a map of the city, sketched out on a piece of parchment. ‘The main effort will be against the Saint-Omer gate, sire. Ralph Stafford and Maurice de Berkeley will lead the storming parties, with German mercenaries in support. If they can gain a foothold on the walls, the rest of the vanguard will go in. The remainder of the army will cover the perimeter, to pin down the defenders and guard against any possible sortie.’
‘Who is guarding the left flank?’
‘Llewellyn ap Gruffyd’s company, from Conway. They are deployed in the dunes above the beach, in case the French try to break out to the south.’
‘Good. And the Saint-Omer gate is the weakest point on the walls?’
‘So my spy tells me,’ said Lord Rowton. He was stocky man, richly dressed in a blue coat and hose. It had been his suggestion to besiege Calais in the first place, and the king had been persuaded by him. ‘They’ve had a couple of hard winters, and frost has weakened the ramparts. Money was sent for repairs, but it vanished into someone’s purse. The gatehouse itself has a strong garrison, but the walls each side are weakly defended.’
Brother Geoffrey of Maldon, in his usual severe black robes with a neat white bandage around his head, looked surprised. ‘I was unaware we had an agent in Calais.’
Rowton nodded. ‘The agent is mine. My family lived here in Artois before they came to England. Maninghem, the family holding, is not far away. When the king decided to lay siege to Calais, I offered to contact a cousin who lives in the town. He agreed to help.’
‘Out of family loyalty?’ Geoffrey wondered.
‘Sadly, that is not a quality my family are famous for. Money, and certain concessions once we take the city.’
Brother Geoffrey smiled. ‘That does sound more in keeping with human nature.’
‘When do we attack?’ asked the king.
‘At nones, sire. We’ll give the siege engines an hour to soften them up before we go in.’
‘Good. Make it so.’ Dismissing the subject of the assault, the king turned to Merrivale. ‘This information from the Knights of Saint John. Is it reliable?’
‘I believe so, sire,’ said the herald. ‘The Knights in Flanders have supported the League for years, and fought against France. They have no reason to give us false information.’
‘I can’t arrest Philip de Thame just yet. But I will order an inquisition.’
Lord Rowton intervened. ‘Sire, you have instructed Thame to raise troops from the Order’s lands in England and bring them to join the army. If Thame is conspiring against us and he comes to Calais, there is a risk he might defect to the enemy. Better keep him safe in England, I would suggest.’
The king nodded. ‘A very good idea, Eustace. Northburgh,’ he said to his secretary, seated at a desk to one side of the room, ‘see to it. Make certain the order reaches the prior as soon as possible. Thame is to remain in London until he receives further instructions.’
Thomas Hatfield, the Bishop of Durham, wagged one finger in the air. ‘I agree, sire, a wise precaution. And also, we should discover whether Thame is conspiring with others.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Rowton.
‘On their own, the Knights are not strong enough to threaten the stability of the kingdom. But suppose they are in league with some of our high officials in London, the chancellor, or Archbishop Stratford, president of the council. They could wreak havoc in the king’s absence.’
Rowton stared at Hatfield in astonishment. The king frowned.
‘With respect, my lords, there has been no hint that either the chancellor or the president of the council is involved,’ Merrivale said.
Hatfield looked sceptical. ‘Then let them prove their innocence. Furthermore, if someone is bribing Thame, we need to discover where the money is coming from.’
Michael Northburgh looked up from his desk. ‘Presumably it comes from Blyth.’
‘But how does the money get from Blyth to Thame?’ demanded the bishop. ‘Are couriers bringing purses of gold and silver? Or are the conspirators using dark exchanges? If we can find out who these middlemen are, we can trace them back to Blyth.’
‘You clearly have expertise in these matters,’ said Rowton.
Hatfield looked supercilious. ‘I have some knowledge of how money markets function, yes.’
Rowton turned to the king. ‘Then perhaps the investigation of Philip de Thame should be left to Bishop Hatfield, sire. His officials in England can undertake the work at his direction, and report to us here at Calais.’
‘You are full of good ideas, Eustace,’ the king said humorously. ‘That’s your second today, by my counting. Very well, Hatfield, I leave this to you. Find out if Thame is indeed receiving bribes, and if so where the money comes from. Report as soon as you learn anything useful.’
Hatfield bowed. ‘What are your orders for myself and the herald, sire?’ Brother Geoffrey asked.
‘For you, Geoffrey, I have something very much suited to your talents. The knights and barons of eastern Artois are planning to rebel against their overlords, and have asked for assistance. I want you to go out and stoke the fires. Northburgh will give you money to recruit men if needed. Do what you did so well back in Savoy, Geoffrey, and I will be very well pleased.’
‘I shall do my utmost, sire.’
‘Merrivale, you are needed here,’ the king continued. ‘We have also received word that the King of the Romans is sending an embassy. Some rubbish about mediating the quarrel between us and France. I need you to deal with them.’
Merrivale tried to conceal his irritation. Did the king not read my report? he wondered. The search for the man from the north must surely take precedence over everything else. Aloud he said, ‘Andrew Clarenceux is the royal herald, sire. Would I not be interfering in his duties?’
‘Andrew will of course receive the envoys formally and conduct the ceremonies. I want you to find out what the Germans really want. That’s what you’re good at.’
Merrivale persisted. ‘And the conspiracy, sire?’
‘Bishop Hatfield will deal with the Knights of Saint John, and we’ll leave the Pilgrims to the burgemeester of Bruges. They’re in his province, not ours. You did very well, Merrivale, and for that, you have our gratitude. But other problems also demand our attention, and your services are needed here. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sire.’ Merrivale caught Brother Geoffrey’s eye and saw the latter’s fractional nod.
‘Good.’ In the distance they heard the bark of a cannon firing, followed by another. ‘Very well, gentlemen, you have your orders,’ the king said. ‘Now, let’s see if that Saint-Omer gate is as weak as Lord Rowton thinks it is.’
A wet wind blew in off the sea and whipped across the marshes. To the south the skeletons of burned out windmills stood on the heights above Sangatte, blurry through a veil of sea spray. Closer to hand the siege engines were at work, and the thump of trebuchets and the hard impacts of stone shot on the walls of Calais reverberated in the air. Michael Northburgh laid a hand on Merrivale’s arm. ‘You seem a little short-tempered, old friend. Is your demoiselle giving you trouble?’
‘She is not—’ Merrivale stopped. ‘You know the danger we are in,’ he said. ‘And yet the king pulls me hither and yon. First I am packed off to Bruges with the queen, now I have to sit idly by and wait for some German embassy to arrive. And now Hatfield is interfering, and that is the last thing I need.’
‘Hatfield is a highly intelligent man without a grain of common sense,’ the secretary agreed. ‘If anyone can botch this, he can. It could be worse, you know. You could be back in the Prince of Wales’s household.’
‘God grant me strength.’ Since covering himself in glory at Crécy, the young Prince of Wales and his companions had thrown themselves boisterously into what they imagined to be adult pursuits, namely drinking games, all-night gambling sessions and telling boastful stories about the women they wished they had slept with.
Merrivale drew breath. ‘I have had word that my father’s condition is growing worse. There is a friend in England who can look after him, but I need to write to her.’
‘Bring the letter to me, and I will put it in the courier’s pouch along with the royal letters. That way you may be sure it will reach its destination.’ Northburgh looked at him in concern. ‘You look tired, my friend. Are you sleeping well?’
‘No,’ said Merrivale. He realised he had spoken more sharply than he intended. ‘But I thank you for your concern. I will be well. I just need to see this through.’
Tiphaine was waiting at their lodgings. Merrivale’s two servants, Mauro and Warin, were there too. Warin, the groom, had been in his service since he became a King’s Messenger, and like himself was a native of Dartmoor in Devon. The son of a tin miner, he was plain-spoken, blunt and utterly reliable. Mauro was a Moorish man of uncertain antecedents who had joined the herald’s household in Spain two years ago. Soft-voiced and gentle in manner, he had killed for Merrivale, and would die for him.
‘I have asked Brother Geoffrey to join us,’ the herald said. ‘Apart from the three of you, he is the man I trust most in the world. I want to hear his views.’
Geoffrey arrived a few moments later. ‘How is your head?’ Tiphaine asked.
‘You are kind to ask, demoiselle. I still have headaches from time to time, but the physician says that is to be expected.’ He sat down on a wooden stool and looked inquiringly at Merrivale. ‘What is on your mind, Simon?’
Another gun boomed in the distance. ‘We have known each other for a long time, you and I,’ Merrivale said. ‘We have fought many a dirty, bloody, lonely war together. In Savoy, we nearly bought a kingdom.’ He paused for a moment. ‘But nothing we have done so far compares to the task that faces us now.’
The others waited. ‘The man we seek is hiding in plain sight,’ Merrivale said. ‘He is close to the king, who trusts and reposes great faith in him. We know the king is loyal to his friends, sometimes loyal to a fault. Exposing him could incur the king’s anger. And the queen has instructed me not to proceed against this man unless I have unimpeachable evidence.’
‘That is understandable,’ Brother Geoffrey said thoughtfully. ‘Whom do you suspect, Simon?’
‘I can think of only three people in the king’s inner circle who have northern origins. All three were in the room with the king just now.’
He paused for a moment. ‘One is Lord Rowton, whose lands are in Lancashire and Cheshire. The second is the Bishop of Durham, who hails from Yorkshire. The third is Michael Northburgh, the king’s secretary, who also comes from Lancashire.’
He looked around at the others. ‘I would swear on my soul it is not Northburgh. I have known Michael for years, even longer than you, Geoffrey. In my experience, the crown has no more dedicated servant.’
‘But you yourself said it could be someone with a grudge,’ said Tiphaine. ‘Has Master Northburgh failed to secure a post he desired? Does he feel he has not been fairly rewarded for his services?’
‘I don’t know.’ Merrivale paused. ‘We can try to find out… As the king’s secretary, Michael has a great deal of power. He sees every letter that goes to and from the king, and knows everything the king knows; more, probably… But is that enough for a conspiracy of this size and scale?’
‘He could have allies,’ Tiphaine pointed out. ‘We know the man from the north has friends and supporters. Guy of Béthune, John of Hainault, Blyth. Can we connect Northburgh to any of them?’
‘Possibly with Hainault,’ the herald said slowly. ‘Northburgh’s uncle, the Bishop of Coventry, is an ambitious man; he once campaigned to be made a cardinal. He was also a strong supporter of the old king, but he defected to Mortimer’s cause as soon as the rebels landed in England, and then abandoned Mortimer when our present king arrested him. Much as Hainault did.’
There was silence for a moment. John of Hainault had led the troops that overthrew Edward II of England and handed power to Queen Isabella and her lover Roger Mortimer, the Earl of March. Hainault had been present at Berkeley castle that night in 1327 when the old king was murdered; the man from the north, Merrivale believed, had been there also. Could that have been Bishop Northburgh? Or his nephew, Michael?
If so, and if this plot had its origins in the events of that night, the situation was doubly complex. The king was determined to put his father’s death behind him, and did not want old wounds to be reopened; as his Grace himself had said many times, what mattered now was the future, not the past. Back in the summer he had forbidden Merrivale from investigating any links between the present conspiracy and his father’s death.
‘We can’t rule him out, of course,’ Merrivale said abruptly. ‘What about the other two?’
‘I am similarly inclined to discount Lord Rowton,’ said Brother Geoffrey. ‘He has been at the king’s side for more than twenty years. He helped the king to arrest Mortimer. No one has been more loyal than Eustace Rowton.’
Rowton’s father had also been caught up in the political turmoil of the late 1320s; initially a supporter of Mortimer, he had broken with the would-be usurper and later been reconciled to Edward III. ‘Then why is he still plain Lord Rowton?’ asked Warin. ‘Why have titles and lands not been showered on him? That is usually what kings do, is it not?’
Geoffrey rubbed his chin. ‘It is a fair question. Montacute became Earl of Salisbury and William Bohun is Earl of Northampton and constable of the kingdom. Rowton, so far as I know, has received nothing.’
‘Perhaps he does not seek titles or offices, señor,’ suggested Mauro. ‘Perhaps he serves the king only for friendship.’
There was a short silence. Tiphaine sniffed. ‘That would make him unique among men.’
The herald pondered. ‘He may not have received material rewards, but he remains one of the king’s closest friends.’
‘The king likes him, but does not trust him?’ asked Warin.
Brother Geoffrey shook his head. ‘The king does trust him. He is present at all the king’s counsels, and he is also providing information from inside Calais.’
Tiphaine looked surprised. Merrivale explained about Rowton’s spy in the town. ‘How does he communicate with this man?’ she asked.
‘He did not say,’ said Brother Geoffrey. ‘Are we agreed that Lord Rowton is an unlikely suspect?’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘That leads us to the bishop, Thomas Hatfield. Of the three, he is the only one not connected in some way to the death of the old king.’
‘What do we know about him?’
‘Not a great deal, as it happens. We know nothing of his family; supposedly he comes from a humble background, but he attended Merton College and entered the royal household in his mid-twenties. After that he rose very quickly, Receiver of the Chamber, Lord Privy Seal, and last year he was chosen as Bishop of Durham at the king’s request. He is still only thirty-six, two years older than the king.’
‘The king trusts Hatfield too,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘Enough to give him command of a division of the army last summer.’
‘Yes… Hatfield was very quick to point the finger at others today. The chancellor and president of the council, also men whom the king trusts. I wondered if he was trying to discredit them, and put himself in line for either or both positions. That would make him the second most powerful man in the land, after the king himself.’
‘Is there anything to these allegations?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘I know someone who can find out. The same friend might help us learn more about Hatfield’s background, too. Are we agreed that Hatfield seems more likely than the other two?’
They nodded. ‘But we do not neglect Northburgh and Rowton,’ Tiphaine said. ‘My father was betrayed to his death by a man he had considered a friend. The prospect of power drives men mad, and they will make any sacrifice to reach it.’
‘Agreed.’ The herald looked at the two servants. ‘Mauro, Warin, I want you to watch all three of them. Talk to their servants, keep an eye on comings and goings in their households. Tell me anything you learn.’
Outside a trumpet sounded a ragged fanfare, notes splitting in the damp air. ‘The assault is beginning, señor,’ Mauro said.
‘Shall we watch?’ asked Brother Geoffrey, rising to his feet. ‘It has been years since I last saw a good escalade.’ He smiled at Merrivale. ‘I missed all the excitement back in the summer.’
‘I have had enough of sieges,’ Tiphaine said with feeling. ‘Go and watch, by all means. If Calais falls, you may come back and tell me all about it.’
The air was full of thunder. More guns had been brought over from England; there were ten of them now, newer and larger than the ones used on the field at Crécy, emplaced to concentrate their fire on the walls around the Saint-Omer gate. Stone shot hurtled from the mouths of the guns and splintered against the walls. Beside the guns, trebuchets wheeled their long wooden arms and more stone shot arched into the air; closer to the walls the archers prowled across the muddy flats, shooting at the enemy on the ramparts. Storming parties were forming up under the red chevron banner of Stafford and the white chevron and crosslets of Berkeley, men carrying boats and scaling ladders with close escorts of dismounted men-at-arms and flanked by more wedges of archers. Holstein’s German mercenaries were moving into position behind them.
The king and his officers stood at the edge of the camp, watching the scene. Lord Rowton turned as Merrivale and Brother Geoffrey approached. ‘By God, I’m starting to have doubts about my spy. Those walls do not look particularly weak to me.’
The walls around the gatehouse were scarred by shot, but showed no signs of crumbling. ‘Calais is proving a rather tough nut to crack,’ Brother Geoffrey said thoughtfully.
‘Tougher than we first thought, certainly. There’s a double moat, so we can’t undermine the walls, and we can’t starve them out because we don’t have enough ships to blockade the harbour. An escalade is our only chance.’
Sickness and desertion had thinned the army that had fought at Crécy; there might be seven thousand men in the lines outside the city, if that. Most of the fleet had been paid off at the end of the summer when their contracts ended. Money, as ever, was tight and getting tighter.
The trumpet sounded again. ‘Right,’ said Rowton. ‘Let’s see what Stafford and Berkeley can do.’
The tide had receded a little, and the storming parties ran forward through shallow water, carrying their ladders and dragging the boats behind them. The guns roared again. In response, two French cannon emplaced on the gatehouse spat smoke and tongues of flame, and stone shot tore through the English columns, knocking men and down and smashing one of the boats. Stafford’s men faltered for a moment, but Berkeley’s company pressed on, archers fanning out with their bows raised, seeking targets. Crossbowmen leaned over the ramparts of the town to shoot back at them, and the archers picked them off one by one, their bodies collapsing backwards or falling heavily into the inner moat.
The storming parties reached the outer moat. Boats splashed into the water and men crowded into them, carrying the precious ladders. Swiftly they crossed the moat, climbed onto the dike on the far side, dragged the boats out of the water and launched them again in the inner moat. The defenders threw stones down on them, followed by jars of burning oil; two boats were shattered and sank in the moat, leaving their cargoes of men struggling in the water. The other boats bumped against the walls, ladders were raised and men-at-arms began climbing towards the ramparts.
None reached the top. The English archers smothered the ramparts with clouds of arrows but more stones fell, smashing ladders and pitching men into the water below. More incendiaries came down too, leaving black scorch marks on the walls, and even at a distance the watchers could hear the screams of burning men. Five minutes after the first ladders were raised the trumpets sounded the recall, and what was left of the storming parties paddled back across the moats, abandoned their boats and ran towards the safety of the English lines. The archers fell back more slowly, covering their retreat.
‘Well, that’s that,’ the king said. ‘We’ve tested their defences, I suppose. We’ll do better next time.’ He did not say what all of them were thinking, that they could hardly have done worse.
‘I am sorry, sire,’ said Lord Rowton.
‘These things happen. We’ll carry on, of course. We must. You are right, Eustace, laying siege to Calais is the best course of action. We need a harbour on this side of the Narrow Sea, and Calais is the best one on this coast.’
The rest of the army began to pull back towards the camp, splashing across the marshes. The mood was silent and glum. Stafford and Berkeley had lost several dozen men, and barely scratched the defences of Calais; the German mercenaries had not even engaged the enemy. Rowton turned to Merrivale. ‘I’d like a word, herald, if you please.’
‘Of course, my lord.’
Brother Geoffrey walked away. ‘The king has been deeply affected by the attack on the queen,’ Rowton said. ‘More than he lets on.’
‘I understand, my lord.’
‘This conspiracy you uncovered back in the summer has shaken him too. The news of John of Hainault’s involvement was particularly galling. Hainault is the queen’s uncle, and there was a time when both their Graces counted him as a good friend.’
The queen had made the same point, Merrivale remembered. His lordship paused for a moment. ‘What I am trying to say is, don’t think the king is trying to prevent you from breaking up the conspiracy. You must carry on, of course.’
‘To do that, I need to find the man at the centre of the conspiracy,’ the herald said. ‘I need the man from the north.’
‘Then find him. Do whatever you have to do. I ask just one thing of you.’
‘Name it, my lord.’
‘When you do find this bastard, let me know. He has betrayed the king’s trust, and for me, that is unforgivable. I want to be there when he dies.’