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“No.” He went back to planning his non-plan.
“See you haven't an attendant, sir,” the urchin persisted. “Happy to carry your lance or polish your armor.”
This time Máel examined the boy for an extended beat of annoyance. “Do I look as though I have a lance?”
The boy shook his head slowly, like a sage. “No, sir. You look like an outlaw.”
Ignoring this accurate slight on his character, he turned back to the arena. D'Argent would be sitting in one of the boxes—the front hung with pennants, his treacherous arse settled on a velvet cushion.
The boy's voice chirped up again. “Certes, sir, I can find you anything you need. Weapons, lodging, whores...”
Máel looked down slowly. “How old are you?”
The boy grinned. “Old enough to find you a whore.”
“I don't need a whore,” he said curtly, then went still, his attention centering on one of the boxes.
There he was. D'Argent, Lord of Ware. Looking the other way, toward Lord Yves’s box. A woman sat beside him...a daughter?
D'Argent had a daughter.
A beautiful one.
She might be useful.
He had no idea how, specifically, owing to his complete lack of plans, but an heiress seemed like a useful thing.
The boy, apparently undeterred by Máel's lack of need for a lance, a squire, or a whore, tipped to the side and peered into the arena with him. “Which one is she?”
He snapped his gaze down. “She?”
The boy shrugged. “You’ve the look of a man who’s watching a woman.”
Máel stifled a sigh and dug into one of the pouches on his belt. He drew out a penny and dropped it into the boy's hand.
The child stared at the coin, then lifted suspicious eyes. Smart urchin.
“What's this for?” he asked.
“Going away.”
A grin flashed across his dirty face, light shining through ash. He darted off, then stopped and looked at the penny he'd earned for doing absolutely nothing. He turned back.
“You sure you don’t need anything? I can help. A nice place to stay?” He ran the back of a grimy hand under his nose. “P'rhaps some wine or ale? Or a tavern—”
“I need to get in there.”
The boy followed the direction of his nod toward the arena. A line of knights still awaited entry, leather and metal clinking as they prepared to ride in to the adoring crowds.
“I could walk you over,” the boy said uncertainly, reaching for the reins of Máel’s horse. “But it'll cost you a ha'penny.”
“You'd charge me to walk my horse ten paces?” Máel was shocked. Even he and Rowan and Fáelán didn't charge these kinds of fees.
“I'd charge to say God bless you.” The child looked between the arena and Máel. “You're not a knight, are you?”
“What do you think?”
The boy snorted. “I think you're never getting in that parade.”
