Free Hawk Quest by Robert Lyndon Page A

not stiffness that plagues him. The opposite more like. Man that age, wife with appetites.’ The quartermaster tapped his nose.
    ‘Then give me the pepper I need to restore harmony to the marriage.’
    ‘Not a chance.’
    ‘Very well,’ Hero said in a tremulous voice. ‘I’ll report your lack of cooperation.’ He made to leave.
    ‘Oi, pop-eye. Come back. This is what you want.’
    Hero sniffed at a small linen bag. ‘What is it?’
    ‘My secret, but I guarantee it’ll put iron into the limpest of tools.’ The quartermaster folded his arms again. ‘Would the young scholar be requiring anything else?’
    ‘Only some leeches. Oh, and a mortar and pestle.’
    ‘Sweet Jesus,’ the quartermaster sighed, and lumbered back into his sanctum. He returned and slammed them on the counter. ‘Now fuck off.’
    At the wall the company divided, the hunters cantering north towards a block of woodland, Lady Margaret’s party dismounting under a Roman milecastle overlooking the North Tyne. Vallon gave Margaret his arm. Together they walked through an arched gateway into a hushed courtyard carpeted with turf. In the far corner a flight of broken steps climbed to a wall-walk. Opposite the gate, accessed from the walkway, was a square tower. Stairs climbed the interior to the roof, where servants had spread cushions. Vallon crossed to the parapet and gazed down on the ruins of a Roman fort similar to those he’d seen in southern France and Spain. From the wood came bugle notes and the cries of the huntsmen encouraging the lymers: Ho moy, ho moy! Cy va, cy va! Tut, tut, tut!
    A page came puffing backwards up the steps, lugging a wicker basket. The women nibbled honeyed angelica and sipped posset and chatted about the weather and their children and the frightfulness of life on the frontier. Vallon joined in the small talk until his face ached from forced smiling. He was beginning to think that this was indeed just a picnic when Margaret clapped her hands.
    ‘I know you’re all curious about our handsome French captain. He’s been our guest for three weeks and we still know hardly anything about him. The captain’s uncomfortable in the presence of so many ladies. I think we’ll get nothing out of him unless I quiz him alone.’
    She shooed her giggling entourage downstairs. The priest was last to leave and Vallon could see from the sweat greasing his brow that his anxiety went deeper than concern about leaving a stranger alone with his lord’s wife.
    The women’s voices faded. Margaret turned her rouged and smiling face. ‘I mean it, I won’t rest until I’ve sucked you dry.’
    ‘My history would be a great disappointment to you.’
    ‘Men don’t know what excites a woman’s interest. It’s not descriptions of dreary battles that titillate us. It’s the subtle personal details.’
    ‘You’ll find me most unsubtle.’
    ‘Then let’s start at the beginning. Are you married? Do you have family?’
    ‘No wife or family. No estate or property. I earn my living by the sword alone. As you must have gathered, it’s not a good living.’
    ‘It’s a handsome weapon, though. The inlay on the hilt is exquisite, and I positively covet the jewel on the pommel.’
    ‘It’s Moorish, forged in Toledo from steel, not iron. It’s harder than a Norman blade.’
    Her eyes widened. ‘Harder than a Norman sword. Can I feel it?’
    ‘Madam.’
    ‘No, let me draw it out for myself.’
    Using both hands, she slid the blade from its scabbard. The effort brought colour to her cheeks. ‘How bright it gleams. When did you last use it?’
    ‘Against the Moors in Spain.’
    ‘That long ago. A blade as fine as this should be drawn more often.’ She breathed on it, looking up at him from under her plucked brows, and rubbed the steel with the cuff of her gown. ‘Let me feel the tip. Oh, how keen it is. Look how it’s pricked me.’
    Vallon held out his hand. ‘Your husband wouldn’t be pleased to learn that you’d taken harm