Guy de Cygne stopped and looked at Le Sourd. Had the story been a mistake? Many of the Parisians had preferred the Burgundian party and their merchants. Was he about to lose the sympathy of his host? Was he going to get his throat cut?

He saw Le Sourd raise his hand. He reached for his sword. But the hand came down on his shoulder.

“Damned Burgundians,” the big man roared. “If there’s one thing I hate more than an Englishman, it’s a Burgundian. So your father could not fight?” he asked.

“Not armed and mounted as he wished. So he went on foot as a humble man-at-arms. He said it was his pilgrimage.”

“Ah. Bravo, young man!” cried Le Sourd. “Magnificent!” He seized his goblet and raised it. “Let us drink to the Maid of Orléans,” he called, “to Joan of Arc and all who fought for her.”

Guy de Cygne allowed himself to smile. It was all right. He’d taken a chance and it had paid off.

For as it happened, though the stories about his ancestors had all been true, the one about his father was not. He’d made it up on the spur of the moment. The truth—that his father, as a young man, had stupidly gambled away some of his small inheritance—was hardly heroic. But the tale he had told was much better, and it amused him that this villainous rogue had believed it.

When the toast had been drunk, his host turned to him in a manner that was almost solicitous.

“So tell me, monsieur, have you come to Paris to serve our new king?” he inquired.

It was only a year since King Louis XI of France had come to the throne. But it was already clear that the new king meant to make changes. Louis’s father had been content enough, thanks to Joan of Arc, to keep his battered kingdom. King Louis had made no secret of the fact that he wanted far more. Ambitious, cunning and ruthless, he intended to destroy all opposition, and raise France to glory, and he’d do whatever it took.

And if Guy de Cygne’s family could have afforded armor and a fine warhorse, then this might have been an option. But they couldn’t, and their reason for sending him to Paris was more prosaic.

“I have come here to meet my bride,” he answered, without enthusiasm.

It was a friend of his father’s who’d arranged the business. The girl was from a rich merchant family, and Guy’s parents had been well satisfied with the dowry offered. But his father had left Guy a choice. “Go to Paris and meet the girl,” he’d instructed. “If you truly dislike each other, we’ll call it off. Although,” he added, “I’ve known couples who got on perfectly well for years without liking each other in the least.” He shrugged. “However, I suppose you may as well like each other at first.” Guy was due to meet the girl the following day.