She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. He has got Blueskin with him. Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the gravel.
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