The cook-boy—he must have been roused from his bed to make the meal for me—hardly bothered to look who he was working for; after he had dished up the meal he scraped the burners hurriedly clean for morning, did an even sketchier job of scouring his pans, then with a glance at Cadal for permission, went yawning back to bed. Cadal served me himself, and even fetched fresh bread hot from the bakehouse, where the first batch had just come out for morning. The soup was some savoury concoction of shellfish, which they eat almost daily in Less Britain. It was smoking hot and delicious, and I thought I had never eaten anything so good, until I tried the chicken, crisp-fried in oil, and the grilled sausages, brown and bursting with spiced meat and onions. I mopped the platter dry with the new bread, and shook my head when Cadal handed a dish of dried dates and cheese and honey cakes.

“No, thank you.”

“Enough?”

“Oh, yes.” I pushed the platter away. “That was the best meal I ever ate in my life. Thank you.”

“Well,” he said, “hunger’s the best sauce, they say. Though I’ll allow the food’s good here.” He brought fresh water and a towel and waited while I rinsed my hands and dried them. “Well, I might even credit the rest of your story now.”

I looked up. “What d’you mean?”

“You didn’t learn your manners in a kitchen, that’s for sure. Ready? Come along then, he said to interrupt him even if he was working.”

Ambrosius, however, was not working when we got to his room. His table—a vast affair of marble from Italy—was indeed littered with rolls and maps and writing materials, and the Count was in his big chair behind it, but he sat half sideways, chin on fist, staring into the brazier which filled the room with warmth and the faint scent of apple-wood.

He did not look up as Cadal spoke to the sentry, and with a clash of arms the latter let me by.

“The boy, sir.” This was not the voice Cadal had used to me.

“Thank you. You can go to bed, Cadal.”

“Sir.”

He went. The leather curtains fell to behind him. Ambrosius turned his head then. He looked me up and down for some minutes in silence. Then he nodded towards a stool.

“Sit down.”

I obeyed him.

“I see they found something for you to wear. Have you been fed?”

“Yes, thank you, sir.”

“And you’re warm enough now? Pull the stool nearer the fire if you want to.”

He turned straight in the chair, and leaned back, his hands resting on the carved lions’ heads of the arms. There was a lamp on the table between us, and in its bright steady light any resemblance between the Count Ambrosius and the strange man of my dream had vanished completely.