The sergeant looked up at her with an expression of mad gratitude. He said, 'Argle.'
'She did what?' said the duke.
The sergeant stared fixedly at an area a few inches to the right of the duke's chair.
'She give me a cup of tea, sir,' he said.
'And what about your men?'
'She give them one too, sir.'
The duke rose from his chair and put his arms around the sergeant's rusting chain mail shoulders. He was in a bad mood. He had spent half the night washing his hands. He kept thinking that something was whispering in his ear. His breakfast oatmeal had been served up too salty and roasted with an apple in it, and the cook had hysterics in the kitchen. You could tell the duke was extremely annoyed. He was polite. The duke was the kind of man who becomes more and more agreeable as his temper drains away, until the point is reached where the words 'Thank you so much' have the cutting edge of a guillotine.
'Sergeant,' he said, walking the man slowly across the floor.
'Sir?'
'I'm not sure I made your orders clear, sergeant,' said the duke, in snake tones.
'Sir?'
'I mean, it is possible I may have confused you. I meant to say “Bring me a witch, in chains if necessary”, but perhaps what I really said was “Go and have a cup of tea”. Was this in fact the case?'
The sergeant wrinkled his forehead. Sarcasm had not hitherto entered his life. His experience of people being annoyed with him generally involved shouting and occasional bits of wood.
'No, sir,' he said.
'I wonder why, then, you did not in fact do this thing that I asked?'
'Sir?'
'I expect she said some magic words, did she? I've heard about witches,' said the duke, who had spent the night before reading, until his bandaged hands shook too much, some of the more excitable works on the subject.[3] 'I imagine she offered you visions of unearthly delight? Did she show you—' the duke shuddered – 'dark fascinations and forbidden raptures, the like of which mortal men should not even think of, and demonic secrets that took you to the depths of man's desires?'
The duke sat down and fanned himself with his handkerchief.
'Are you all right, sir?' said the sergeant.
'What? Oh, perfectly, perfectly.'
'Only you've gone all red.'
'Don't change the subject, man,' snapped the duke, pulling himself together a bit. 'Admit it – she offered you hedonistic and licentious pleasures known only to those who dabble in the carnal arts, didn't she?'
The sergeant stood to attention and stared straight ahead.
'No, sir,' he said, in the manner of one speaking the truth come what may. 'She offered me a bun.'
'A bun?'
'Yes, sir. It had currants in it.'
Felmet sat absolutely still while he fought for internal peace. Finally, all he could manage was, 'And what did your men do about this?'
'They had a bun too, sir. All except young Roger, who isn't allowed fruit, sir, on account of his trouble.'
The duke sagged back on the window seat and put his hand over his eyes. I was born to rule down on the plains, he thought, where it's all flat and there isn't all this weather and everything and there are people who don't appear to be made of dough. He's going to tell me what this Roger had.
'He had a biscuit, sir.'