A warm summer breeze ruffled the dark curls of the young man waiting patiently at his lord's stirrup, and he pushed a grubby finger under his collar to loosen it, grimacing at the sweaty stickiness on the back of his neck under the damp curls. He'd been waiting there for what seemed ages, his lord's voice droning on as he explained his refusal of an offered treaty to an equally bored herald. The herald had given up any pretence at attention and was leaning on his staff, staring glazedly at an ant's nest his boot had disturbed.

'Thomas.'

The knight's voice scythed through the young man's daydream and he started.

'Sire?'

'If you've finished napping, I'd like you to fetch a scroll from the pack. The one wrapped in blue silk.'

'Yes, sire.' Flushing at the admonishment, Thomas stalked to the mule tethered a few feet away, under the shade, and yanked at the pack.

And why does the bloody mule get to stand in the shade, where I have to stand in the full sun being blinded by that jaybird's armour?

'Here, sire,' he said, handing up the scroll and retaking his place. The air stank of horse and male sweat. Flies swarmed in the dusty dung at the side of the road, and somewhere across the fields of gold barley, a dog barked. Sir Josce unwrapped the silk and unrolled the scroll, perusing it carefully.

You've seen it a hundred times! You wrote it! Look, you idiot, give the bloody scroll to the bloody herald and let's go!

'Thomas, give this, my answer to his lordship of Estragales, to the herald.'

'Yes, sire.'

'And then fetch my wineskin. I'm parched.'

Gritting his teeth, Thomas performed the tasks without changing expression, for he'd learned the hard way that any expression of displeasure was followed by a beating.

'If you want to be grumpy, I'll give you something to be grumpy about!' That was his master's favourite. Sir Josce loved to beat his squires, and Thomas loved not giving him the opportunity. He allowed himself a bleak smile as his back was turned to the knight. And then the smile faded at the memory of what had happened to one unfortunate boy, caught stealing cakes from the kitchen. Little Henry, barely ten summers old, had died from a wound gone sour, a result of Sir Josce's punishment.

Bastard. If I ever get my inheritance back I'll do for him!

'The wine, sire,' Thomas said, handing up the wineskin. It would be warm, and taste of leather and spices, and he knew that the water from the stagnant pond nearby would probably be better, but he couldn't help but feel the lack as his tongue began to glue itself like sandpaper to the roof of his mouth.

The herald, having read the scroll's contents, let it snap back into a roll and shoved it into his belt.

'I will deliver this to my lord,' he said with a florid bow.

Sir Josce's horse champed impatiently, beginning to dance. 'See that you do, and also tell him I require his answer in three days at the latest, or he'll be testing the strength of his walls sooner than he thought.' He gathered up his reins and hauled in the grey's head with a vicious jerk of his arm, and the horse stepped sideways with a startled snort, knocking Thomas half off his feet and stepping neatly on his foot. He supressed the cry of pain, for Sir Josce hated any show of weakness.

'Hurts, does it, boy? You don't know what true pain is! But I'll show you, hah! Drop your breeches.'

And not only would it hurt to walk, but it would hurt to sit too. Thomas went and got the mule, blinking tears of hate and pain from clear amber eyes gone dark with anger.

He sat, much later, in the cool of the stable scrubbing Sir Josce's saddle. The fine embossed leather tended to get sweat and muck congealed in the intricate designs, and it was Thomas' lot to scrub it out again.

Had I my due, then someone would be doing this for me, he snarled to himself, and dipping his brush in the pail of hot water, attacked the leather with vicious diligence. A good job would earn him certain privileges of freedom. A good job was what Sir Josce expected. And somehow, through constant good jobs, he'd become his lord's favourite squire, so much so that two others had been sent home, no longer needed.

One of Josce's household knights came striding into the stable, his gold-brown hair stuck with stalks of straw and his shirt open at the neck. Thomas smirked, wondering which dairy-maid or laundry-girl would be birthing a child in nine months. Sir Josce was forever complaining they'd be knee-deep in bastards if Sir Edwin didn't stop, but it was a gripe made with fondness and laughter, and Sir Edwin did not stop.

He put out a hand and leaned indolently against the stable door, one foot crossed rakishly over the other.

'Sir Josce calls for you, fair Thomas,' he said, his tone liltingly mocking as he spoke Thomas' name.

'What does he want?'

'How should I know? I suppose he'll tell you when you get there! I'll say though, he didn't look in a good mood.'

Thomas rose, laying the half-clean saddle on its rack, and dusted himself off. 'Best go at once then, hadn't I? If you'll let me pass.'

'No hurry, Tom. No hurry. He can wait a little longer. I'm fascinated how much you've grown. So tall, and three years ago you were a mere scrap of a boy.' Sir Edwin gave a lazy smile, full of promise, one finger laid softly against Thomas' jaw. 'How old are you now, lad?'

Thomas slapped the hand away. 'Eighteen,' he said. 'And I'd like to reach nineteen, which I'm not likely to if I keep Sir Josce waiting. Now please...'

'Please?' Edwin laughed. 'Fine manners, for a squire. I thought maybe Sir Josce had battered your airs and graces out of you, but maybe he was wrong. A blue-blooded squire, that's what he wanted. And maybe that's what I want, right now...'

'Lay one hand on me and I'll geld you!' snarled Thomas. 'Whatever your desires, you won't slake them on me! Now let me pass, or I'll tell Sir Josce it was you delayed me - and this time he won't turn a blind eye!'

Edwin flung up his hands in defeat, looking as if a bee had stung him somewhere delicate. He made no protest when Thomas shoved past him and stamped across the yard to the stairs that would take him up the tower to Sir Josce's chambers, but he did make a mental note to make the lad pay for his refusal - and pay dearly.