Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. "Heard of your escapes. "Patience Kite has lured him to Enfield on a false scent after Blueskin. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered.
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