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were anything to go by. Had Wynter not been so absorbed with her own food she would have teased him mercilessly. Even Razi seemed transported, and he ate with silent relish until, mopping the last of his fried onions with the last of his rye bread, he sighed, and pushed his empty plate away. “Magnificent,” he proclaimed.
    Wynter peered hopelessly into her now empty trencher, wondering if it would be ill-bred to break it up and suck the gravy from it. Before she could decide, the landlord ambled over to gather their empty plates and tankards, so she pushed it reluctantly towards him and sat back instead.
    “What news of the world?” he asked, stacking dishes on his arm. “Now ye have full bellies like, and aren’t so peaked looking.”
    Razi leant back in his seat, removed a toothpick from his purse and began cleaning his teeth. Since their having been mistaken for thieves, he had deliberately kept his well-bred voice to the background, letting Christopher’s more likely accent do the talking. As a woman, Wynter was either an object of lascivious attention or disregarded completely. The landlord didn’t expect anything like a reply from her.
    “We ain’t too up on current affairs,” said Christopher. “Having been out of the path of men for a little while.” There was a smile in everything but his eyes, and it somehow gave dangerous significance to his words. The landlord nodded slyly, as if fully aware of his meaning.
    “Though we did see cavalry on the road yesterday,” said Wynter.
    Every eye in the room looked up at that and one of the men at the centre table said sharply, “Wot road? Where headed?”
    Christopher glanced at him. “North road,” he said. “Headed to the crossroads, I reckon.”
    There was some relaxing amongst the rougher men, but the tension didn’t fully leave their faces. The yard dogs began to bark and one of the tarmen turned and looked out the window. “More tars heading in,” he said. “Still off up the valley.”
    The landlord shouted into the kitchen. “Tars are ’ere. Get hot water on. Tell the other bints to open up the extra rooms.” He turned back to Christopher and raised his eyebrows for him to continue.
    “The cavalry were flying black flags,” said Christopher. “And the plumes were broken on their hats.”
    “That’s on account o’ the dead prince,” explained one of the men.
    Wynter felt the colour drain from her face, and Razi sat forward slowly. He reached for her and she took his hand under cover of the table.
    “Which prince?” asked Christopher hoarsely.
    “The
…”
began the man by the fireplace.
    “What will that Moorehawke bint do now, I wonder?” interrupted one of the tarmen, picking his teeth, and Wynter felt Razi’s grip tighten on her hand.
    “She’ll have ter go back to the palace and throw ’erself on the mercy of the King.”
    “He’ll bloody kill ’er. She’s better off to run, after what she done.”
    “I’d say she’s dead already.”
    “They didn’t find ’er body!”
    “Don’t signify. After what they done to the Arab, who knows what they’d do to ’er. That were bloody savage, so it were.”
    Wynter blinked. Her eyes felt gritty and hot.
After what they did to the Arab
.
    “He deserved it. Poisonous devil, got what was coming to ’im.”
    Razi sat rigid and unmoving, his hand crushing hers with tremendous force.
    Then Christopher’s voice, dry and halting, scratched through the haze of her shock. “What
…”
he said reluctantly, “what did they
do
to the Arab?”
    But the conversation had taken its own course and Christopher went unheeded.
    “Was it the King you reckon?” asked the young tarman. “In revenge for Lorcan Moorehawke’s death?”
    Wynter jumped. “What?” she cried. “When?” They all turned to look at her, shocked into silence. She banged her fist on the table and all the men jerked. “
When?
” she shouted.
    “When did Lorcan Moorehawke die?” asked Razi, his deep voice