Harry took Bennet’s arm and shoved him toward the door. The younger man wobbled, but at least he kept upright. Outside, the air was chill and Bennet gasped. He put out a hand to steady himself against the tavern wall, and for a moment Harry thought the man would be sick. But then he straightened.

Harry’s bay mare stood beside a larger chestnut gelding. “Come on,” he said. “Best to be away before they fin-ish their drinks.”

They mounted and started off. It had begun to drizzle again.

“Guess I should thank you,” Bennet spoke suddenly. “Didn’t think you’d come to the aid of a Granville.”

“Do you always start brawls without anyone at your back?”

“Nah.” Bennet hiccupped. “This was a spur-of-themoment thing.”

They rode in silence. Harry wondered if Bennet had fallen asleep. The horses splashed through puddles in the road.

“Didn’t know you could fight like that.” Bennet’s slurred voice cut across the patter of the rain.

Harry grunted. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Where’d you learn?”

“The poorhouse.”

Harry thought he’d shut the other man up with his stark statement, but then Bennet chuckled. “My father’s a right sod, isn’t he?”

There was no need to reply to that. They crested a rise and came to the river.

“Better not come any farther. You aren’t safe on Granville land.” Bennet peered at him in the dark. “He wants to kill you, did you know?”

“Yes.” Harry turned the mare’s head.

“Will you never call me by my name again?” Bennet sounded wistful. Perhaps he’d entered the maudlin stage of drink.

Harry nudged his horse down the track.

“I’ve missed you, Harry.” Bennet’s voice floated on the night air behind him and melted away like a ghost.

Harry didn’t answer.

OUTSIDE THE COCK AND WORM, Silas peeled himself away from the shadows and watched bitterly as his beloved son rode away with the man he hated most in the world.

“Your boy be dead but for the Woldsly s-steward,” a drunken voice slurred nearby.

Silas whirled and peered into the dark alley between the Cock and Worm and the neighboring building. “Who are you? How dare you speak to me thus?”

“I’m juss a little bird.” A harsh feminine giggle.

Silas felt pressure building in his temple. “Come out of there or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” the voice sneered. A face appeared, ghostly in the shadows. It was lined and worn and belonged to an old woman Silas couldn’t remember ever seeing before. “You’ll what?” she repeated, cackling like a demon. “He’s been killing your sheep for weeks and you’ve done naught. You’re juss an old man. Ol’ man Granville, lord of nothing! How’s it feel to be under the spur of the new cock?”