SIXTEEN
Bernard's insides ached with hunger as he stared at the pot of cooked oats, but he didn't dare eat his share until the girl returned. They were hers, after all. His leg pained him, for the last potion he'd taken had long since worn off, but he didn't dare take any more. It dulled his wits worse than strong wine, and he would need all his faculties to convince the girl he was as harmless as he said he was.
He didn't blame her for being suspicious of him, but it hurt that she thought so little of him, and men in general, that she would doubt his word. He might be Lord Vauquelin's youngest son, but noble blood ran in his veins. However unpleasant that duty had been, he had been the personal page of the King himself. His honour was as precious to him as his own life.
Finally, Ursu
