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‘Alexon,’ said the man.
There was a crash and the sound of wood splintering, followed by a powerful roar.
‘I think Lamen is holding his own,’ said the Prince, peering over the top of the table.
A sudden loud clanging caused a worried expression to fly onto Alexon’s face. ‘That bell summons the garrison.’
‘Come with us,’ said the Prince to Alexon. And then, ‘Lamen, to me!’ and the five of them made their way out the door, with the fight still thundering behind them.
It was swift work to unhook the nosebags from the horses and clamber into the wagons, thankful the horses were still in harness. They did not have to wake their small guard; the bell had done that. Their men hurriedly pulled on pants and shirts and swung up into saddles. Travelling at night was not preferred on these provincial tracks, but they cut a breakneck pace (for wagons) and were away. Not a moment too soon: the local garrison’s arrival could be heard distinctly behind them.
Only when Lamen judged they were not being followed did they slow and begin to look for a cutting or a gap in the trees where they could stop and camp for the night.
Guilliame said, ‘It’s a pity you didn’t punch him after dinner. We can make a fire, but there’s nothing to eat.’
The Prince held up a parcel wrapped in cloth.
‘The lamb!’ said Alexon, who had leapt down from wagon.
‘I hit an Akielon with it,’ said the Prince, ‘but aside from that I think it’s no more the worse for wear.’
‘We’ll have wine too, if you squeeze out your jacket,’ said Lamen. He held up the brace of rabbits.
‘Quick thinking, Lamen,’ said Alexon, admiringly.
Their six mounted guards settled the horses. Guilliame went in search of firewood. Charls, who had a scrupulous sense of fair trade, consoled himself that they had paid for the lamb and the rabbits had been thrown at him, which might count as a gift. Then he saw the Prince and Lamen, and all thoughts flew from his mind. The Prince was holding one of the rabbits by the ears with an outstretched arm, looking at it.
‘It can’t be that hard,’ the Prince was saying.
Charls saw in horror that he was talking about skinning the rabbit. Charls took Lamen firmly by the arm. ‘Excuse us, Cousin Charls.’ He was steering Lamen to the side of the wagons.
‘Lamen,’ he said, when they were a few steps away. ‘Is the Prince of Vere holding a dead rabbit?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘He is a prince. That is a rabbit. Do you think he has ever skinned a rabbit in his life?’
‘No, but—’
‘No. A Prince’s hands are instruments of refinement. A Prince’s hands are not made to touch a dead rabbit. You have to do it!’
‘But Charls—’
Charls pushed him firmly in the back. ‘Go!’
This heart-stopping breach of etiquette averted, Charls returned to the camp as the soldiers were digging a pit for the fire. He collected blankets for them to sit on, and only when the spit was set up and the fire burning well did he go in search of the rabbits.
Lamen and the Prince were together at the tree edge. The rabbits were on the ground, except for the one that Lamen was holding by the leg, gingerly. The Prince was wiping his eyes, laughing.
‘If we just knew which end to start with,’ Lamen said.
It was suddenly obvious that Lamen had no idea what to do. With a clear moment of insight, Charls saw that Lamen was not a cloth merchant’s assistant. He was the prince’s private companion, and had no real skills whatsoever.
‘Guilliame, please teach Lamen to cook a rabbit,’ said Charls. The throbbing in his temple was threatening to become a headache.
Thankfully, they did not have to squeeze out the Prince’s jacket: they uncovered wine in the wagons, along with tin cups, and it made for a merry party around the campfire. The wine was warming and the meat (Guilliame did a fine job) was well cooked. Alexon, they learned, was the son of a sheep farmer, and he and Charls had an engrossing conversation about the rise in regional wool prices. Charls thought Alexon an upstanding young man, and made a mental note to supply him with a new cloak.
‘Tell me where you each hail from,’ said Alexon.
