Once at the shore he hefted his packs and took stock. Spying an inn, he set off for it. A drink and some food would fill the time until his horses were offloaded.

When the innkeeper of the ‘Sign of the Moon’ in Wefford entered his hall on the Monday, his feeling of pride was dimmed as the reek attacked his senses. It was not the ale on the floor, that acidic scent held for him the very promise of his business. The smell that assailed his nostrils was the harsh, bitter tang of vomit where young Stephen de la Forte had thrown up – again.

Even now in the early morning he felt the thrill of pride at the sight of his hall. It held the promise of comfort and pleasure, with the tables and benches laid down both sides, more at either end, and the massive hearth in the centre on its bed of chalk and soil. There were no flames now, so he set to his first task, building up the fire slowly with kindling, bending low and blowing gently but persistently until the flames, small and yellow, began to lick upwards enthusiastically and he could put smaller logs on top.

Sitting back on his haunches, he stared at it cautiously, satisfying himself that it had caught. Up above he could see the smoke drifting heavily, high among the blackened rafters. It would be some time before the room heated, he knew, but when it was, the smoke would disappear. Time now for the real work.

He began in the corner by the screens. At first he shoved the benches and chairs aside to be able to sweep underneath, but when he had got halfway, the novelty was wearing off. Realising how long he had already spent, he left the furniture where it was and merely swept around it. He was keen to finish before the first customers appeared. Arriving at the discoloured area, he could not help a grimace of disgust at the odour.

Fetching the big shovel he used in the stables, he carried the old rushes to the manure heap. It was fortunate that the pile was not far from his door, for there was a chill breeze coming from the south. A sudden shiver shook him, and he made haste to finish.

Once the floor was cleared, and all was as clean as he could get it, he found that there was only the hint of the vomit left on the air. The smoke from the fire hung in long streamers around the room like a mist over the moors on a windless day. Gradually eating its way into the atmosphere, it replaced the stench with its own healthy and wholesome bitterness. Nodding happily to himself, the innkeeper wandered outside to the store, and soon returned with fresh rushes, strewing them liberally over the floor. For some, laying new rushes was an irregular task only performed once a year, but for an inn it was the only way to keep the smells from becoming overpowering.

He had completed his task, and was standing with his hands on his hips when he heard the horses. Smiling, he reflected that new rushes worked for customers like cream with a cat. Whenever they were freshly laid the customers were sure to follow. Scanning the room one last time, he confirmed that all seemed well, then strode to the curtain that hid the passageway. At the end of the narrow corridor, he unlatched the front door and threw it open, peering out. Tall and imposing under his hooded cloak, with a bow on his back and sword by his side, was a man on a horse, leading a second by the reins.

The Bourc sprang down lightly. He had been forced to stop for the night at a little wayside inn, some miles from Oakhampton, and had set off again as early as possible in the morning. Now he was chilled to the bone, or so he felt. Puffing out his cheeks, he let his breath drift from compressed lips, then shook himself like a dog fresh from the water. “I think I need a pint of hot ale,” he said softly.

The innkeeper nodded and smiled before turning to fetch the drink and warm it, while the Bourc led his horses round to the stables, rubbing them down and setting out hay and water before making his way indoors. He smiled at the smell of fresh rushes, soft as the scent of hay on a summer’s evening, and the promise of warmth from the burning wood at the hearth. There was a cheering tang from the beer in the pot over the flames. Sighing with pleasure, he waited silently while the innkeeper busied himself pouring the hot and spiced drink into a mug, and took it with a sigh of sheer delight. It was almost painfully lovely after the cold discomfort of the ride here. He gazed deep into the depths of the liquid before sipping, and a slow smile spread over his face.

“Am I heading the right way for Furnshill manor?”

“Yes, sir. It is only a few miles north of here.”

“Good. Good,” he said and sipped. Then, “Tell me, do you know the people of this area well?” The innkeeper nodded. Of course he did – who else would know the local community as well as the publican, his baffled expression implied. “Do you know where I can find a woman, an old woman called Agatha Kyteler?”

To the Bourc, it looked as though the man suddenly caught his breath, and his expression became suspicious. “Why do you want to know about her?”

Before he could answer there was a bellow, and both men’s eyes went to the door. The innkeeper sighed and rose, leaving the Bourc alone, sipping at his drink and considering the innkeeper’s reaction. The man had been distrustful for some reason when her name had been mentioned, he reflected, and he offered up a quick prayer that his fear of arriving too late was not going to be realised, that she had not died.

He had turned to stare at the flames as he mused and thus did not at first notice that he was no longer alone. It was the waft of flowery scent that made him look up, and when he did he gaped in awe.

The woman who stood nearby tugging her gloves off was beautiful. She was only a little shorter than him and about the same age, with a slender body clad in a light green tunic under a grey riding cloak, and when she glanced at him, he saw that the colour of her eyes almost matched her dress. High-cheeked and with pale features, she looked frail at first sight, but as he mumbled an apology and lurched to his feet he saw that it was an illusion. Her figure was strong and supple as a whip.

“Madam, please be seated,” he said, and she turned to him. He found that she had a disconcertingly intense gaze. The way she stared, it was if she was concentrating her whole being on him, looking him full in the face with a strange stillness. After what felt like several minutes, she gave a faint smile and inclined her head, sitting on the bench he had moved for her, then unclasping the grey cloak from her throat and, with a short shrug, letting it fall. The Bourc had just sat with her when another man entered.

Glancing round, the Bourc saw a barrel-chested man in his late forties or early fifties. From his breadth and peculiar, rolling gait, the knight needed no flash of intuition to guess that he must have been a sailor. The life at sea had stamped itself on him too heavily. Although the face was not badly formed, the mass of wrinkles and scars made it ugly. There was no gaiety, no pleasure or joy in his eyes, only a cold brutality. Small eyes like those of a wild boar glared from the Bourc to the woman, and as he stepped forward, the fire seemed to strike sparks in his eyes as the flames were reflected.

“Angelina! Move over!” he said, standing behind them.

To the Bourc it looked as though she was reluctant to move. As if rebelling against the order, she waited a moment while the newcomer grumbled before shifting along the bench. Even then she moved farther than she needed, leaving a gap between herself and the man, and the Bourc was pleased to see a sneer of disgust twist her face when she looked at the man. “Innkeeper!” the man bellowed. “Wine! I want wine!” Only then did he turn and peer at the Gascon. “Who are you?”

Keeping his anger under control at the rudeness, the Bourc smiled back, but his eyes were hard. “Friend, I am a traveller on my way to see the master of Furnshill manor for my lord. I am called the Bourc de Beaumont. What is your name?”