Pocket held it up reverently in front of him, unwilling to take his eyes off it, lest it vanish from between his fingers like smoke. All his life, his clothes had been threadbare and tatty, the rough garments of an orphan. His shirts were little more than sacks, his breeches castoffs that Moragh had washed and repaired. He had never owned shoes. Not until Sir Corc handed over a solid pair made from hide and leather, along with a wide belt complete with pouch. Pocket donned them all, the jerkin sliding over his servant’s garb, hiding it from view. Knights were given to a little vanity and for the first time, Pocket knew why. He could not stop looking down at himself and wished he could run back to the castle so that he might admire his new raiment in a looking glass, and if the other castle servants should happen to see him, then so much the better.

Suddenly, the prospect of leaving no longer frightened him. He felt prepared for the road and the world it traversed. He was so unconcerned with the perils of the journey the jerkin might as well have been mail. He strode over to Backbone’s bridle and took the thick guide rope in his hands. He looked Sir Corc full in the eye.

“Lead on, Sir. I am ready.”

The knight nodded, but remained where he was. “Soon,” he said looking back towards the castle. “We await one other.”

Pocket’s mouth twitched. One other? The Knights Errant always traveled alone! But then again, he was here, why not one more? But he could not help but feel disappointed. Sir Corc could be taciturn, but the idea of sharing the journey, just the two of them, was an exciting one and this mysterious third felt like an intruder. He was about to ask Sir Corc who would be joining them when something caught his eye amongst Backbone’s saddlebags. A well-worn scabbard was thrust through the ropes and Pocket’s eyes fell upon the wide cross-guard, long grip and round pommel of a very familiar sword. But why did Sir Corc have it? He did not even fight in the tourney! That sword belonged to the Dread Cockerel.

Only it didn’t. He did not win the tourney, at least not with honor. And Pocket himself had spied the deadly knight leaving the Roost in the pre-dawn hours two days after the tourney. He had been hunting bird’s eggs in the nests clinging to the castle’s eaves, risking the venture only in the bitter watches of the night. He froze at some movement in the Inner Bailey below and then shivered when he saw the tall, terrible form of the Dread Cockerel, striding out the gate like a threatening storm cloud. And he had not borne the sword, Pocket was certain. By rights it belonged to…

“Squire Flyn,” Sir Corc said flatly.