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Eleanor wants, it can wait for another day. Canterbury Cathedral isn’t going to move.”
    Roland said nothing, but I noticed a smile forming on his broad mouth. No doubt the thought of a bed at an inn with a cheery hearth appealed to his youthful soul more than did a soaking on the uncertain waters of the stormy Channel.
    And so we found such an inn, not difficult in a town with as brisk a harbor trade as Havre. We entered under the newly painted sign of the Boar’s Head Inn, complete with a somewhat frightening picture of the boar snarling in an unseemly way for a place of hospitality. I was—truth to tell—as glad as Roland to be heading to a warm dinner and a bed of any sort, be it only clean.
    A short, smiling man met us at the door and immediately inspired my confidence. He was fat, indicating that the food was good, and his apron was clean. These signs boded well for the hot meal and clean bed I desired.
    The innkeeper surveyed us from head to toe and then offered the ledger in which we were to write our names by the dim light of a candle. Tom and Roland could write, of course, and I wrote names for the others. The names were false, but, like all experienced innkeepers, our host asked no questions. Our heavy travel cloaks and good horses told him we had silver, and that satisfied his only concern.
    I was pleased when I saw my small chamber. Blue muslin curtains had been hung in the window, and fresh water for washing was set in the basin; these were niceties I had not expected in a town that serviced mostly sailors.
    After a good dinner of (what else?) roast boar served in a large, noisy public room, our small party arranged itself around the inn’s commons, choosing feathered cushions in front of the snapping fire. The expected storm hammered the roof of the inn, and we congratulated ourselves on the wise decision we had taken at nightfall.
    We had already been plied with the best wine the Loire Valley had sent to this city, and now we were moving on, taking up our busy host’s recommendation of his cellar stock of Armagnac. I was sitting with my back against several of the pillows, while Roland was sprawled beside me and Tom sat next to him, cross-legged, partially facing us across the corner of the hearth. The other guests had moved to the back of the room for what appeared to be a rousing game of dice, and Marcel and Étienne had joined them willingly.
    I noted Tom’s fatigue in the fire’s light, signaled by the drooping of his good eyelid. Roland, however, with the typical insensitivity of the young, paid no heed to this sign. He only knew he wanted more tales from the old knight.
    When there was a pause, I took pity on Tom and steered the conversation elsewhere: “Where were you born, Roland?”
    â€œIn south Brittany, near Quimper. Where you can smell the sea all the day through.” His face seized with a sudden look of longing so poignant that I had to hold back from placing my hand on his arm.
    â€œHow did you come into my brother’s service in Paris?”
    â€œMy father died when I was ten. For a time I was squire to Count Geoffrey’s chief guard. When Count Geoffrey died, my mother sent me to her brother in Paris. I came to the attention of the captain of the guards for my swordsmanship and was promoted into the service of the king.” He paused. “My mum was afraid there would be trouble in Brittany at the time, and she wanted me away.”
    â€œTrouble? Of what sort?”
    â€œThere were rumors that Count Arthur, Geoffrey’s son, was too demanding of his uncle John, king of England. After his mother the countess died the next year, there was no one to protect young Arthur.” Roland looked beyond me, as if drawing on memory lurking in the shadows of our common room.
    â€œJohn has no children,” I said, munching an apple I had picked from the common bowl on the table. “Neither did Richard. So Arthur was the only