And now Le Sourd had an idea. He glanced at his son, who was watching carefully. Richard knew that his father’s word was law. He knew that his father could kill this young noble if he chose. This was his father’s power.

Should he show the boy something even better? Should he humiliate this noble, make him apologize to the stooped man before he left? The young noble might refuse, in which case he’d have to kill him. Or he might accept and leave with his tail between his legs. But either way, it was a petty gesture, unworthy of a father who, in his own way, still wanted to be a hero to his son.

No. He would show the boy his father’s magnificence. For wasn’t he a monarch in his own small kingdom? And weren’t the great nobles men like himself, but on a larger scale?

“Perhaps I may be able to help you, monsieur. I invite you to sit at my table.”

Guy de Cygne stared at him. This was obviously a trap. He’d be unable to see behind him, or to draw his sword. The quickest way to get his throat cut. Le Sourd read his thoughts.

“You are my guest, monsieur, and under my protection. It would be an insult to refuse me.”

Still de Cygne hesitated. But then the scholarly-looking man sitting on Le Sourd’s right came to his aid.

“You may safely sit, sir,” he said in a voice that was clearly educated. “And I advise you to do so.”

Thinking that this might be the last thing he did, Guy de Cygne sat down in the place offered, opposite Le Sourd, with half the tavern behind him.

Le Sourd ordered his son, like a young squire, to pour their guest a goblet of wine.

“I am Jean, called Le Sourd,” he introduced himself. “This gentleman”—he indicated the scholar—“is my friend Master François Villon. He is a notable poet, his uncle is a professor at the university”—he grinned—“and he has twice been banished for murder.”

“Which I did not commit,” said the poet.

“Which he did not commit,” Le Sourd continued. “So you see, monsieur, that you are in the company of distinguished and honest men.” He glanced at young Richard. “And this young fellow who poured your wine is my son.”

The name of Villon meant nothing to Guy de Cygne. He noticed that the poet had just peeled an apple with a long, sharp dagger which rested on the table. He suspected that the dagger had been used for less domestic purposes. He gave a faint nod to them all.

“I am Guy de Cygne, from the valley of the Loire.”

Le Sourd glanced at Villon.

“I’ve heard the name,” the poet remarked. “Noble family.”

Le Sourd was satisfied. It was the first time a noble had sat at his table. Now he’d let Richard see that his father knew how to conduct himself with an aristocrat.