Despite the early hour, the Dryfe was already open, with policemen and soldiers making up part of the clientele. Martin found them a table, and they slumped down as exhaustion washed over them.
“I hope you don’t want white wine or anything fancy,” Martin reminded Eleanor. “This place is not used to serving ladies.”
Eleanor forced a smile through her tiredness. “I am used to rougher places than this,” she said.
“It’s begun again.” Martin slumped down with his elbows on his knees and his pint glass half-full in front of him. At that minute, Eleanor could not estimate his age; he could have been anything from fifty to a hundred and fifty.
“What has started again?” Thomas asked.
“The great evil.” Martin looked at Thomas through narrowed eyes.
Eleanor thought of de Soulis and her knight.
