“Where is my squire?” Alexander Traverse flung his gambeson to the floor of his tent. “Am I expected to arm myself?” He cursed, ran a hand over his chin and kicked the quilted jacket at his feet. The damn thing was missing buttons.      

     “I believe, Montfort, that you sent Duncan to ready your horse.” His friend, Nicholas Crawford, Baron Caversham, finished his ale and studied him over the rim of his mug. “Compose yourself or your son will awaken.” Nick retrieved the gambeson with a long-suffering sigh and threw it to him. “I suppose I shall have to attend you.”      

      Alex glanced down at his son William, a lad of three years, who rested next to  a pallet, his thumb slipping from his mouth to fall upon the bedclothes. Alex restrained the urge to brush the child’s black curls before slipping into the jacket. “Do not overtax yourself out on my account, Nick.”      

      Nick flung his mug to a basket and missed. “Why the surly mood, Montfort? Do you doubt your ability to best Sotheby in the lists? You always win anyway.”      

      Alex tugged the gambeson and cursed again. “It is this.” He gestured to the absent buttons. “More missing items.”

     “Yes.” Alex ground out, fastening those buttons which remained. “A horse and hawk have gone missing, provisions are mislaid from the pantries and stables, and the girth on my saddle has been loosed on three occasions.”      

      Nick grabbed the mug and poured himself more ale. “And, what? Does your keep run so seamlessly that a few lost items will disrupt it?” He hefted Alex’s breastplate off a table.