"Salazar!" His name sang through halls that had been extended many times. As it reached him in the garderobe, the cleaning of which he loathed, he felt a faint glow that eclipsed the odiousness of his task. Scrubbing his lord's shit from the stone was unpleasant at the best of times, but after the Northumbrian crabs had caused such a flux within his digestive system, the job had become unbearable.

His name was called again, urgent, demanding.

The lady Isabelle could ask anything of him and he would respond. She was the shimmer that cloaked his existence, the wheat in his dull bread. Only yesterday she had asked that he go into the meadow that skirted the manor and pull flax so that she could tease it into a thread for her stitching. He had pointed out that she could have bought far finer thread at the local market in Cambridge, as the local hubbub was now so named, but she had declined, saying that which her own hand had created would have more value than some second-hand material.

And her dark, appraising eyes had sent him willingly into the fields, the rare plant duly harvested.

And now he dropped the straw brush he had been using, grinning as it clattered down the brick-lined hole into the river beneath. The kitchen girl would make a new one for him if he gave her a swift smile and a wink.

His calf-skin shoes made little sound against the marble steps as he reached her chamber. The manor now resembled less a house and more a castle, stone upon stone, and a moat – such a pretentious thing, Salazar felt. She was bent over a tapestry, her face a concentration of attitudes, none of which he could read, and he did not wish to read them. He wanted a woman that would remain an enigma – a mystery never to be unwound.

"You took such a time in coming!" she said, every word an exclamation. "And I need you."

Salazar bowed low and offered himself to her, expecting – hoping – that her request would require some adventure, some adversity.

"Lady, you have me."

"I have no gold thread left," she wailed, thrusting her hand against a work held by the frame that Salazar had made for her. "The merchants in Cambridge said it would be May Eve before they could supply me with it." Her bright blue eyes, so reminiscent of her father's, tipped up at him, the vaguest threat of tears evident on the lower lids. "Would that you could supply me with some?"

Would that, he though with an inhibited snort. Would that was usually an implicit threat to produce whatever she wanted or the great Sir Robert would hear of it. And yet, though he often struggled to provide her with her wants, what she could offer him in terms of position outweighing any disadvantage.

"My lady." He bowed low over her knee, bringing his face up to hers, a supplicant begging forgiveness. "Whatever you desire, I would provide. This is an unusual task and one that requires some time."

"You have until nightfall," she replied, an imperiousness in her tone that could only have come from her father.

"But, my lady… "

"You know, my dear Salazar," she began, her voice pure silk against his ears, "I have oft desired you, and yet my father would surely have us both flayed if we… "

Her blush was as pretty as the lilacs that bloomed in the garden as she allowed what the two of them could do to insinuate itself into his mind

"But if we were betrothed. Imagine, Salazar, if you asked for my hand – and my dowry – and I agreed. My father would not resist me, nor would you."

He felt everything he had ever desired solidify in that moment. He could get her the gold, if he tried hard enough – and with the gold would come everything he considered necessary. As the son-in-law of one of the richest men in the South East, he would be unassailable. The flames in the fireplace grew large as he allowed his mind to roam with the possibilities, and only a dainty cough from Isabelle brought him back to the present.

"The gold thread, Salazar," she said, his name an embrace.

"Of course, my lady," he said with deference. "It shall be yours."

"I knew you would not fail me." Her eyes fell to her embroidery, the capital S that she had been working on not lost on the young man that stood before her.

It was cold. Mid-winter had little to recommend itself beyond the coming of Yule and the recently departed Samhain. Of course, such festivities were considered blasphemous, but they still existed and the warm-blooded Afghani welcomed their warmth. But one was long-gone and the other a mere anticipation. The richness of his woollen cloak was gratifying, but even it could not keep out the biting wing that blew in off the river Cam. Only Isabelle's face forced his feet forward towards Mrs Minchpin's. She was a devil of a woman, if the devil could be said to exist – those priests seemed to think he did. A skein of gold thread could be had from her, but only after she had had him – although her breasts were spectacular and her movements lithe, so it wasn't entirely a sacrifice

Her cottage – no, hovel – lay at the end of Silver Street, so named for the sinewy river that ran through it than for any precious metal that could be found there. If he could just make it that far through this biting wind, he would be warmed by her fire, and her body, and could return with the thread within the allotted time.

But he was not to be that unfortunate. As he set foot on the bridge that would lead him to the street in question, a rough-shod parade passed by. He found their bawdiness a strange combination of the obscene and intoxicating. Several horses were being ridden by naked ladies, their straddled legs a sign of depravity in itself, and men juggling fire accompanied them, twists of wood consumed by flames being tossed with abandon into the air. Salazar could smell the heather in their clothes, a new scent to be added to his ever-growing store, and he had to repress the urge to rip one of the women from their mounts and worry her himself. He was, he reminded himself, on a mission that would mean he could have any of these whores whenever he so chose, if only he could secure the lovely Isabelle as his wife.

And then, once the enticements had passed, came the serious part of the parade; the merchants and peddlers, eager to impart their wares onto an eager audience longing for market day. They often arrived a few days before the allotted charter day; flaunting the law and taxation in an attempt to make their way of life pay dividends. It only took a quick glance for Salazar to realise that he would not have to bed Mrs Minchpin that day to secure the means to bed Isabelle.

Midway between the earthenware pots and the ironworkers was a hooded woman with a small cart overloaded with glitter. Salazar was almost blinded by the riches, so much so that he failed to question its authenticity.

He fought his way through several townspeople, one of whom he simply willed out of his way, and who then fell at his feet, and approached the woman with the wares. She raised her head to him, the hood revealing raven hair and a sharp nose that brooked no nonsense.

He forgot the gold thread. He forgot Isabelle. He even forgot Robert de Malfoi, who had been his benefactor and lord for twelve years. Salazar became a man of his own in the few minutes it took the young Scot, Rowena Ravenclaw, to look up at him and ask what he wanted.

For Salazar the question was moot. He wanted her. He had been waiting his whole life for her.