The courtyard gate swung in hard, banging into the stone wall with a sharp clang that left it shuddering on its hinges. Bantam Flyn strode hotly through, his arm still thrust forward from its assault on the gate. He glowered at the door to the townhouse and did not even glance in Pocket’s direction as he pushed it open with the same conviction he had shown the previous portal and vanished inside. The vibrating gate had settled down and swung back into place by the time Sir Corc entered the courtyard. He wore the same exhausted frustration that always settled over him after quarreling with the squire. Pocket watched as the knight stood in the yard, lost in thought and wondered what he was thinking. At last, he came out of his careworn mind and looked over. Pocket perked up. Sir Corc had hardly spoken to him since their arrival in the city. Now maybe, Pocket could ask some of the questions that had troubled him. Where they were going? And why? He saw reluctance in Sir Corc’s face, as if the he were struggling over the decision to approach, and Pocket waited patiently. His heart fell when Sir Corc turned and entered the house without a word.

The tight quarters in the townhouse became nigh on suffocating as the smell of the turf fire filled the common room. The silence and boredom had been tedious throughout the day, but now, as night came on, it was becoming unbearable. Rosheen sat as far from the smoky hearth as she was able, atop an oaken cabinet near the stairs. She could hear the old servant puttering about the kitchen, washing up after the hot, brown, bubbling substance he had served for an evening meal. The knight was secluded behind the door of the solar and had not emerged to sup.

Clever coburn.

Pocket had been sent to his bed in the garret before the sun had set, so that he would have the strength for their over-night journey. Rosheen had expected him to offer up some protest, but the sweet gurg had merely mumbled his goodnights and went up without complaint. At least he was away from the sullen gloom that hung in the close air.

Bantam Flyn sat in a chair by the fire, searching the flames for a culprit to the crimes against his pride. The huge sword that was the young coburn’s shadow sat propped next to the hearth, untended by oil or whetstone. This night, it seemed, Flyn was content to simply sit and brood. She did not know how much Corc had told him about the coming invasion, but whatever knowledge Flyn possessed did not sit well with him.

He wants to fight. It is all he knows.