Silence blanketed the little churchyard, a kind of peace so still and soft that it seemed the place had been lost in time, far away from the world. Frost hung in the air, and the silver disc of the moon cast its glow over pristine snow and the deep evergreen of the yews. Only one thing marred the perfect beauty of the snow's smooth cover – a set of footprints that led, unerring on their way, to a graveside under the eaves of the old church. The warm golden flicker of a lantern marked where that grave was, and over it stood a boy with his head bowed under his hood. He'd set the lantern by his feet, lighting up the brief but poignantly simple words chiselled into the headstone, words worn with the promise of moss even now, though he kept the headstone clean when time allowed. He read those words over and over. Here lies Sir William Langton…here lies Sir William Langton….

Francis Langton knelt by the grave and began shovelling the snow, several inches deep, from the mound. It soaked through the woollen mittens he wore and froze his fingers, but he didn't care. For the last two years he'd always come here to lay a Christmas wreath at his father's grave, and this year would be no different, though everything else about his life was about to change. Not that he hadn't known it would, one day. Everything did. At fifteen, he already knew more about the fortunes and misfortunes of men than he cared to.

He sat back on his haunches, cold earth beneath him, and beneath that, the bones of his father. It had been two years, and Francis had allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security as life with his mother had carried on as normal, though with tightened belts and purse strings. But the money Sir William Langton had left was nearly gone, and Mary Langton was about to be married again.

Francis shook his head sadly. His mother had refused several suitors the king had put forward, for she'd loved William and knew there could be no other man for her, but his money would not last forever and she'd had to give in. The latest man the king had proposed for her was a rich merchant-seaman, a frequent sailor on the trading route between England and France, and often further a-field too. Sometimes as far as India. To Francis, that was something that inspired his imagination, but despite several attempts, he'd never been able to get Henry Vaughan to tell him any tales of adventure. The man was bluff, red-faced from the sea-winds, with thick grey hair and arms like tree-trunks, and his laughter could fill the entire house. He laughed a lot, too, but where Francis was concerned, he was less jolly. His two sons, too, were thick-set and flame-haired, and Francis knew he was the outsider now. Quiet and dark, tall and slender as a willow wand, he didn't fit into this new family of big sandy-haired men. And with Mary married to the king's own silk-and-spice merchant, Francis knew they'd be at court again, and the thought frightened him. His mother had rarely visited court since William's death, and that suited Francis' natural reticence and love of the quiet life no end. Here in Langton the days meandered by with a sense of peace and contentment, unhurried and undisturbed. Little changed; life at the manor was quiet and unpretentious. Francis loved it, a part of the walls and the earth and the trees, a young man unaware of status or position except where it existed in the minds of men he didn't like.

But all that was about to change.

The lantern flickered out. Francis sniffed, wiped his nose on his mitten, and rose. Tomorrow was Christmas Day, and the last day he'd have his mother to himself, for the day after, she would marry Henry Vaughan.

Within a year, Mary Langton joined her husband in the graveyard, and two weeks later her new baby was buried with its mother. Henry Vaughan shrugged off both of them; the baby had been a girl and a sickly one, and he had never thought much of Mary Langton's health. Although he'd hoped vaguely for another boy, he already had two fine, strapping sons. Francis, however, felt the loss as the worst blow of his life.

For a time, in the first days of his mother's marriage, he'd struggled to accept his stepfather and his two uncouth sons, but then the men had been away for much of the summer, and Francis and Mary had settled back into their old routines. A quiet life, that was what they had; a summer full of sun and freedom. Francis had begun to take a man's interest in Langton Manor, and was frequently to be found in the byres and haybarns, and on several occasions, even the dairy, though Mary soon found out and had a quiet word with the dairymaids not to encourage his presence there. He'd tried to sneak back in, for he loved their chatter and songs, but they'd shoo'd him out on the end of a broom, their eyes full of laughter.

But now all that had gone. The Autumn blew in cold and harsh after a long summer, and Mary died, and Francis' safe world fell apart. He stood now, staring at the new flagstones on the floor, bought by William Langton two months before his death. They were fine Staffordshire slate, polished smooth and shining, and hidden by neither carpet nor rush matting, so proud had Mary been of them.

Henry Vaughan looked him up and down, and then down and up, one bushy grey eyebrow raised and his mouth turned down in disapproval.

'You're as slender as a girl,' he said scathingly 'That's what comes of coddling boys, and I told your poor dead mother that. God rest her soul.'

Francis crossed himself dutifully, and said nothing.

Henry looked at the ceiling. 'Some things are going to have to change around here,' he continued. 'I've been through the accounts, and they are in a worse state than I'd thought. We can no longer afford to keep your servants; I have already dismissed most of them. You, Francis will take their place. If nothing else, a little hard work will toughen you up to be a man, and in any case you are the only suitable candidate. Robert will be with me for much of the time, and Hugh is a knight.' He looked directly at Francis, his blue eyes hard and cold. 'It's time you earned your bread, boy. You've been kept in undeserving luxury for far too long.'

From his chair by the fire, Hugh tittered. Only recently knighted, he wore his spurs as often as he could, and he sat with his legs stretched out to show them off. He angled Francis a look through sea-grey eyes as hard as his father's.

'Fancy being my personal squire?'

'No,' said Francis. 'I'm sure you'd be ashamed of me, the girlish son of a dead knight.' He sighed and looked at the floor again, wishing he liked Hugh enough to accept his offer, for it had been genuine.

Henry gave a sudden jovial laugh. 'No need to look so glum,'; he said, and clapped Francis on the shoulder with a force that made Francis wince. 'You're still a part of this family, but every member has his place…'

'….and mine is in the servants' loft, with the rats?' Francis snapped.

'….I've taken the liberty of ordering you livery in my colours,' Henry finished, ignoring him. Francis gaped. Livery? Servants wore livery! To take on the tasks of a servant was one thing, and he saw the necessity for it, but to be treated like one - to dress like one! He would not stand for it.

'With respect, sir...' he began, but Henry cut him short.

'You're a Vaughan now,' he said, still with the jovial smile on his lips, though it didn't touch his eyes. 'And Vaughan colours aren't to be scorned, boy. You'll be running errands to the town – you need to be seen to be a part of this family.'

As if he would be. Hugh shifted, his cotehardie sleeves falling back to reveal his long knife on his belt.

'Of course, if you think you're too good to work…' Hugh sneered. Francis curled his own lip in response.

'Never mind that,' said Henry, before a fight could ensue. 'Besides, I thought you'd like the opportunity to get to know the Manor – your home – and its workings better. You've spent enough of the last year up to your knees in cow muck and haystacks. You can continue.'

And Francis continued. To his surprise, it wasn't so bad, despite the livery, which was deep blue and gold, particoloured, and tailored to fit him perfectly. He even grudgingly had to admit it suited his dark colouring, and the blue was a particularly lovely one. Henry Vaughan was right, Francis did enjoy being a part of the Manor's workings; he learned the tasks of the dairy and the stables, the byres and sties, and the fields and ponds, and also of the household. Christmas came, and Henry Vaughan took Robert and Hugh and went to court, leaving Francis behind at Langton Manor. He slaughtered a goose, and soaked the salted pig in cider, and gave several shillings to some travelling minstrels to play him carols, and two pennies to a peddler for silk ribbons which he gave to one of the dairymaids. He left the livery off and wore scarlet, and played Lord of the manor to his heart's content.

But when Henry and his sons rode back in, Francis found himself stripped of all responsibility, and a broom thrust into his hand.

'I turn my back for half a day and you're lauding it over all!' Henry snarled. 'Who do you think you are, you little runt? I am lord of this manor through right of marriage, not you! You are fit for nothing but sweeping the shit off the floor!'

Francis jerked his chin up, his cheeks burning. 'If there is shit on the floor, stepfather, then it is because you've walked it in.' He flung the broom down again. 'So sweep it up yourself.'

'Hugh, take the lad outside and teach him manners.' Henry jerked his head at his youngest son, and Francis found his arm gripped in a vice-like hand. He let himself be dragged outside. His pride wouldn't let him protest his treatment, and he reasoned that a few bruises would arouse the servants' sympathy.

'Father's right, you know,' said Hugh conversationally. 'You are a little runt. I don't know why he doesn't turn you out of doors, but be thankful he doesn't.'

'You think he could get away with that?' Francis demanded, bitterness colouring his tone. 'The king would hear of it. As it is, I have no cause for complaint, do I?'

The first blow took him by surprise, and knocked him off his feet, onto his backside in the snow. Pain flooded his cheek and his hand went up automatically to ward off a further blow, but he forced it back down again. He would not be intimidated by Hugh, he vowed, not ever. The young knight could throw his weight around all he liked, and sneer to his heart's content, but he'd never break Francis.

'Get up, runt,' said Hugh. His arms were folded belligerently in a stance so like his father's that Francis nearly laughed out loud. He scrambled to his feet.

'Manners, your father said.' He turned his cheek towards Hugh. 'So go on then. Hit me again. I'm a slow learner after all.'

'You're the Devil's own, that's what you are,' growled Hugh, and let fly with his fist again. Francis spun and landed on his knees, spitting blood. Tears of pain blurred his vision, but he forced himself to his feet again. Hugh wasted no time with words, and struck a third time.

He planted his boot firmly on Francis' chest. 'Stay down,' he advised. 'I don't want to be hanged for murder.'

'Go to hell,' replied Francis through lips swelling with bruises. One eye had closed already, and stung excruciatingly. He made no attempt to rise again; Hugh was right. He did not have what it took to withstand a prolonged attack from someone as burly as Hugh, and he felt he'd proved his point anyway.

Hugh reached down and took a handful of Francis' tunic, hauling him up. 'Manners,' he grinned nastily, 'maketh a man.'

'You'd better learn some then,' Francis shot back, unable to resist. Hugh shrugged and dunked his stepbrother's head in the trough, then dropped him on the ground.

'You smell like a hog,' he said, and stamped back inside.

Francis shook the water out of his hair and smoothed it down, and sat by the trough until the sun had set and the house's candles had been lit. No-one called him inside; no-one came out to see him. Even the servants – those few left who had not been sacked by Henry on his return from court – gave him a wide berth, as if afraid they too would be dismissed if they were seen talking to the former lord's son.

And he tried to remind himself that was who he was. Francis, son of William Langton. William had been a great knight, earning himself fame and fortune on the tourney fields of England and France. Tall, dark-haired and good-looking, he'd been a hit with the ladies too, but despite temptation he'd remained faithful to his wife. Francis had been his pride and joy, being the only child out of six to survive beyond his fifth birthday. Francis wondered miserably what his father would have thought of Henry Vaughan. To most men, Henry was respectful, and respected. Perhaps they'd even have been friends.

A shape loomed above him in the dark, and he realised the yard was flooded with light from the open doorway.

'For Chrissake, get inside,' snapped Robert. 'The king will have our hides if you freeze to death out here.'

'And rob you of a servant?'

Robert aimed a kick, catching Francis on the ankle. 'I won't say it twice.'

Francis deliberated. Inside was warmth, and food, and outside nothing but cold, bitter cold. But inside was also hostility. Perhaps he'd be better off where he was. He bowed his head and drew his knees up under his chin.

'Oh for the love of….!' Robert grabbed his shoulders and hauled him up. 'Stubborn idiot! Do you want to freeze?' He tilted Francis' face to the light and examined the bruise with a low chuckle. 'Hugh clocked you good, didn't he?' he grinned.

'The devil take him,' muttered Francis through clenched teeth, but made no further resistance as Robert dragged him inside.