Salisbury, that city of golden spires, always fascinated Francis. It was not part of Langton's domain, but was governed by the Earl of Wiltshire, though Francis had often ridden through with his father and pretended that he was lord, not the Earl. Part of him still allowed that little childish fantasy, and he wandered through the streets thoroughly enjoying himself, his arm linked casually through his bridle. Salisbury was a town to walk through rather than ride, and he always made the most of such a visit.

He reached the apothecary's shop, looped his reins through the iron ring riveted into the wall for just that purpose, and went in.

'Ah, Francis Langton!' The apothecary beamed at him over the counter, his bare forearms pale and thin and powdered with dried herbs, for he'd been making up ointments and tinctures to sell. There was a herbal scent about the shop, not entirely pleasant, and Francis eyed with distaste the large glass jars of ingredients he could put no name to but which were decidedly not from plants. Indeed, some of them looked suspiciously like insects. He shuddered.

'Good day, Gilbert,' he said politely. 'Have you any rose soap? Langton's stores have run dry and I need more than ash-cakes for guests.'

The apothecary nodded, rummaged under the counter and produced several large squares of pale soap, deliciously fragranced with roses. Francis wrinkled his nose.

'How much?'

'One schilling.' He unwrapped one of the cakes and held it under Francis' still-wrinkling nose, a hopeful look in his eyes. 'Finest rose ottar, all the way from Persia. These are my last three cakes - can't get the oil so easily these days, what with France's ships crawling about the channel. Bunch of pirates! The Devil take them.'

Francis placed two small copper bits on the shopkeeper's counter and gazed steadily at the man who had but two moments ago asked him for a whole schilling for a lozenge of rose soap.

'Two bits, and that is all,' he said.

'One silver schilling!' The man curled his lip. 'Really, Francis, I know the boys don't leave you with much, but I too have a living to make! You'd have me cut me own throat, I suppose.'

'Nothing more than you deserve, you robber!' Francis added another copper to the two he'd already paid, and held his hand out for the soap. 'I paid less than this for a whole cake of lye.'

'And lye is made from nothing more than fat and ash, as well you know! This is rose soap! The oil alone...' He stopped short as the door swung open, and shut again with an imperative thud.

'You again!'

Francis looked round, recognising the cheerful voice, and came face to face with Estienne, his cloak flung over one shoulder and a fat purse of silver in his hand. He looked Francis up and down with amusement. 'Your servants said you'd be here. I hope that soap's not for the lady Mathilda. She's still smarting from her last encounter with you.'

'I'm still smarting from my encounter with the pair of you,' retorted Francis. 'Though I didn't get the beating I thought I would. Why have you come looking for me? If you'd waited back at Langton I'd have come by soon enough. I haven't the silver to linger here all day.' His tone was surly and he knew it, but the young lord Oxford was not someone he particularly felt inclined to be nice to.

Estienne glanced at the small packet of soap the shopkeeper had wrapped, and tossed a coin onto the counter. 'More than it's worth,' he said casually, 'but I can't be bothered to haggle today.' He reached out and took a handful of Francis' shirt. 'Coarse linen,' he said disapprovingly, 'so coarse! I see you in silk, with a cote of scarlet, as befits your station. Oh, I know what you're thinking. But I have to pay you back for the Oxford Goose.'

'What?' Francis began to wonder if this was what sea-sickness felt like. Trying to follow Estienne's thoughts was making him dizzy.

'You're coming to court,' said Estienne. He turned on his heel and looked back over his shoulder. 'At my Lady's insistence. The tailor first though! So come on, Sir Goose – or do I have to say boo?'

'He can carry the bulk,' said the tailor mulishly. He stuck his chin out, grasped a handful of fabric and yanked it over Francis' shoulder. 'Drapes here, and here,' he said.

'No,' said Mathilde, her sentiments echoed by Estienne and Francis, who both shook their heads. 'I want to see his shape.' She took a handful of pins from the astounded tailor and pinned the cloth to follow the line of Francis' body.
'There,' she said, standing back and raking a critical eye over him. 'That's much better.'

'It's not fashionable,' said the tailor, outraged.

'It's perfect,' said Estienne. He glared at the tailor. 'We're paying you, so see it gets done the way we want it!'

'Oxford colours,' added Mathilde mischievously. Francis' eyes widened. 'Oh yes,' she continued. 'Estienne did say you owe him?'

'He didn't say anything about humiliation,' muttered Francis.

'Oxford colours not good enough for you?'

'I'm a Wiltshire man,' he said sullenly. 'I'd prefer Langton colours.' If this was payback, he was going to enjoy it. Langton colours were burgundy and blue, whilst Oxford men wore white and green. Francis disapproved of both colours, unless they were in his garden. And anyway they were Oxford colours. Not as bad as Vaughan colours, admittedly, but near enough.

He eyed Estienne sulkily.

'The subject of colour aside, tell me what this is about,' he said.

'Revenge,' said Estienne. 'You owe me for the Goose, as I've said, and I'd like to see your brother's pig face when you show up at court.'

'Stepbrother, if I have to lay any claim to family,' corrected Francis. 'So I'm a pawn in your little game?'

'I think we'll find you very game,' smiled Mathilda. She turned to the tailor. 'Two cotes of Oxford colours, and one set of Langton. He is to have hose and shirts also, and a hood. We'll fetch them a week from now.'

'You can have them two days from now,' snapped the tailor. 'It hardly requires all my skill, to do what you've ordered here!'

Estienne steered Francis out of the door with a backward glance of contempt for the tailor. 'He doesn't know what he's got, dressing a figure like yours,' he said with a smile. 'Most men are too short, or too bulky, or have a paunch the size of an ale cask. You're perfect.'
Francis felt his cheeks burning at the compliment. He'd never been called that before. Skinny, yes, slender and girlish certainly, but never perfect.
He spread his hands palm up, frowning at the calluses that long hours with the hoe and rake had given him.

'No-one will ever believe I am not a servant,' he said.

Estienne stopped, startled, then inspected Francis' palms.

'They'll think you train with a sword.'

'All very well, until I am called upon to use one!'

'Ah.' Clearly, Estienne had not thought of that. He looked at Mathilda. 'A man can't learn sword-play in two days, Matty,' he said.

She pursed her lips. 'What if….what if he were to be under a sort of holy vow, not to bear arms? I know of knights who have done such a thing – it's supposed to be a time of contemplation, peace in the sight of God. That would give you time to train him.'

'I trained before,' offered Francis. 'When my father was alive and I was heir to the Manor. But that was three years ago. I don't know how much my muscles would remember. Perhaps my hands have forgotten the feel of a sword. Besides, I don't own one. All the Manor's weaponry was appropriated by Henry Vaughan when he married my mother. I barely own a pocket knife.'

'We'll see,' said Estienne, striding ahead and already with his mind on other things. He turned, skipping backwards a few steps with his arms flung wide. 'I know all about lost inheritances. My own mother was divorced by my father, and it took several years proving myself on the tourney circuits before he'd acknowledge me as his own.'

Francis stopped. 'My father's dead. Who am I going to prove myself to?'

'The King.' Estienne winked, then grinned and snapped his fingers. From under the eaves of an ostlery a groom came forward leading a tall grey by the bridle. Estienne took the reins and vaulted lightly into the saddle. Francis hesitated, then mounted his own pony, a rough barrel of a creature compared with the fine Arab Estienne rode.

'You need a better horse too,' said Estienne. 'You can ride my grey - she has a tendency to sidle but I'm sure you'll manage. You sit well,' he added approvingly.

'I learned to ride when I was three years of age,' said Francis. 'I haven't been a servant all my life.'

'Didn't say you had,' said Estienne infuriatingly. Francis ground his teeth, crushing the urge to knock the young man off his horse onto the street. He'd never met anyone so cock-sure of themselves! Not even Henry Vaughan and his horrible sons were quite so irritating.

'Langton's a good ten miles hence,' he said, hoping against hope that Estienne and the lady Mathilda would see sense and not return there with him after all. But Mathilda rang her bridle bells with a laugh, and Estienne grinned and set his hat on his head at a rakish angle.

'Ten miles is not so far,' he said. 'Back to Langton with us all, Sir Goose - I want to see you with a sword in your hand!'