The wedding was a success in every way. By the third day, he and Cécile had decided that they liked each other very much indeed. Meanwhile, a week of gaiety in Paris was called for, before he took her down to the valley of the Loire, to see the modest estate which so urgently needed her love.

He was in a company of a dozen nobles, three days after the marriage, when they had dismounted to wander through the great market of Les Halles. And he was just standing beside a brightly colored stall that offered herbs and spices when he heard a cry from nearby.

It was Charles, son of the Comte de Grenache, with whom he’d been riding only minutes before. He ran over to him.

“What’s the matter?” Guy asked.

“Someone just stole my purse. It was hanging on my belt, on a strap, and the cursed fellow must have cut it off with a knife. My God he was fast.” Charles de Grenache shook his head. “I had thirty francs in there.”

“Did you see him?”

“I’m not certain, but I think so. A fellow with a stoop. Tonsured like a priest. His head bobbed like a pigeon.” The young aristocrat looked around. “He just vanished in the crowd. I’ll never see him again. Or my money.”

Guy smiled.

“As it happens,” he said, “I may be able to help you there.”

It took only a few moments for Guy to explain what he required. One of the party, a young squire, volunteered to go with him. Then, leaving the others in the market, Guy and the young squire set out.

They moved swiftly and by the most direct way, to a street where they could see the door of the Rising Sun. They hadn’t long to wait. Having taken a more circuitous route, the stooped man appeared from an alley, and having glanced behind him furtively, went in through the tavern door.

Guy gave him time to get well inside, and then, keeping the squire with him, he strolled casually to the tavern and opened the door.

Jean Le Sourd was in a good mood. He sat with his son beside him at his table, on which the leather purse had just been placed. He poured out the gold and silver coins and quickly reckoned. Thirty francs’ worth. He scooped the money back into the purse, and nodded to the stooping man.

“You’ll get your share,” he said.

“How much?”

“Whatever I give you,” said Le Sourd sharply. “Sit down.”

As the stooped man was about to turn away, there was a movement at the door, and Le Sourd looked up in surprise to see the fair-haired young noble who’d come there three months ago enter with a youth.

Was it possible the stooped man had stolen from him again? He looked inquiringly at the cutpurse, who gave a shrug which said, “I’ve no idea.”