And then the tavern door burst open.

Le Sourd looked up. Through the door came a young man with a drawn sword. Moving swiftly forward he gave a loud cry: “In the name of the king, nobody move!”

The man by the door leaped toward his back with his knife, but let out a scream as a second swordsman, coming through the door, put a blade through his ribs from behind. More men were pouring through the entrance now; five, ten, fifteen, fanning out through the room with swords drawn. Even the thieves and murderers who filled the place knew at once that they hadn’t a chance. These invaders were young knights, trained in the use of arms. By coming in the king’s name, they had all the legal excuse they needed. And they had one other advantage also. They were noblemen, and as such they were ruthless.

When a huntsman killed a deer, he might see the beauty and the nobility of the creature, as he did in much of God’s creation. But when a knight was confronted by such men as kept company in the Rising Sun, he’d kill them with no more compunction than he’d use toward a sewer rat. And Le Sourd’s men knew it.

While Le Sourd’s attention was distracted by the men who were pouring in through the door, something else was happening at his own table.

Guy de Cygne had suddenly leaped up from the bench, drawn his sword, and by the time Le Sourd turned back to him, he found that he was looking along a blade whose point was tilted tight under his chin.

And as young Richard reached for his knife to protect his father, Le Sourd’s voice called out with an urgency and command that could not be ignored: “Leave your knife, my son. Keep still.”

Then, in the heavy-breathing silence that followed, Guy de Cygne’s voice came crisply: “This is your man, Grenache. The purse is by his feet.”

Le Sourd watched as the young man who’d been first through the door advanced to his table. Carefully, with the point of his sword, Charles de Grenache felt for the purse, and drew it across the floor until he could see it clearly. Still using the sword point, he lifted the purse and let it fall upon the table.

“That is my purse,” he confirmed. He turned and surveyed the room until his eyes rested upon the stooped man. “And that’s the fellow who took it,” he added.

“He works for this villain,” said de Cygne. “They all do. That’s why he’s got the purse now. He’s called Le Sourd.”

Le Sourd was a hard man. He’d killed many times. He’d been cautious when de Cygne had first arrived, and he cursed himself now, for allowing the young man to ambush him.