“There are many fine estates in the valley of the Loire,” Le Sourd remarked as he handed the young man a dish of sweetmeats.

“And many, like ours, that have been ruined,” de Cygne replied frankly.

“That is unfortunate. May we ask how that came about?”

It was none of this evil man’s business, Guy de Cygne thought. But situated as he was, he may as well play along, so he answered honestly.

“It has taken time. The plague did not help.”

This was an understatement. In 1348, when the Black Death reached France, it had struck their small village especially hard. Only one of the de Cygne family, a boy of ten, had lived, with only the family motto—“According to God’s will”—to guide him. Clearly God wished the family to survive. And this was enough to keep him going. But life had been hard.

“My own family had an important position at that time,” Le Sourd remarked with a wicked smile. “My great-grandfather was the finest cat-killer in Paris.”

It was true that the Paris authorities, convinced that it was cats rather than rats which carried the plague, had caused huge numbers of them to be killed. Though whether his host was serious or joking, de Cygne wasn’t sure.

“But it was the English who ruined us,” he continued. “My ancestor fell at the battle of Crécy. Ten years later, his son was taken at Poitiers and we had to ransom him. That cost us half our land.”

“He was in good company,” Le Sourd remarked. “The king of France himself was taken at Poitiers, by the Black Prince of England. They put him in the Tower of London.”

“And all France had to pay his ransom,” Villon added sourly. It seemed to Guy de Cygne that the poet didn’t think the king was worth the price.

“Then the English mercenaries came and looted us,” he said.

“They looted half France,” Le Sourd agreed. “A plague of locusts.”

“And we had only a generation to recover from these misfortunes,” Guy went on, “before the English returned again. My grandfather died at Agincourt.” He paused and looked at them with the pride of a noble whose fortunes might be low, but whose ancestors fought with honor.

Le Sourd nodded slowly. He, who lived by the knife, could respect those who died by the sword. If he wanted an aristocrat at his table, young de Cygne was the real thing. Just as well he hadn’t killed him.

“The ruin of my family was completed,” the young nobleman calmly continued, “by my own father in the time of Joan of Arc.” He paused. “But that may be a story it would bore you to hear.”

“Not at all.” Despite himself, Le Sourd was coming to like this aristocratic boy. “Please continue.”

Young Guy de Cygne was just about to begin when he realized that he could be about to make a terrible mistake. He had forgotten to ascertain Le Sourd’s politics. He thought quickly, but it was too late. He’d have to tell the story as it was, and take a chance.