Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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Linking his hands behind his head, Jean waited for her to come to the substance of the matter, and watched the rise and fall of her bosom under her chemise. It must be no trifling concern, that she went about telling him in such a circuitous way. He’d picked a good woman, he thought complacently, admiring her breasts – they were still firm, still beautiful, even after three children and more years than he cared to count.

Yolande sat up abruptly and leaned across him; one long brown plait tickled his neck. She tugged one of his hands from under his head and pressed it to a soft breast. ‘Go on, Jean. Touch me. You want to, I can see it. Touch me, and tell me if you notice anything different about me.’

In a flash, Jean understood. So that was it. That was what he had, without realising it, noticed. Her breasts were fuller because she was breeding. ‘You’re with child!’

‘Aye.’ She sank into her pillows, and folded her hands over her belly in that prim nun’s manner that Jean was learning to suspect. Her eyes were cold. Green ice. ‘Are you pleased?’

‘Pleased? Naturally I am pleased.’

‘I thought at first to keep it from you,’ she said, and he noticed her voice lacked colour. ‘I thought it best to try and...lose it.’

‘Lose it?’

‘There are women who know just what to do. Why even here in Kermaria, I’m told Berthe–’

‘Blessed Jesu!’ Jean grasped her shoulders. ‘I forbid it! I forbid it! Do you hear?’ He felt hollow with fear.

Throwing a pointed glance at the curtain screen, Yolande said, mildly, ‘I should think all Kermaria can hear.’

He shook her, hissing, ‘I’ll not have you going to those old crones. Will you swear it? Besides, it’s a mortal sin.’ Bewilderingly, Yolande’s shoulders began to shake. The ice in her eyes had melted. She was laughing. ‘Yolande?’

‘Jean, you are wrong if you think that fear for my soul will keep me from visiting Dame Berthe. I’ve been your leman for a score of years. I doubt that one more sin will tip the balance over-much – I’m already bound for the devil’s pit.’

He stared intently at her. ‘Don’t listen to the priests, love, or you’ll end up twisted like your poor mother. You’re an honest woman, and God would not–’

‘Honest? Your mistress, and honest? There are those who would gainsay you on that, my love.’

‘Nevertheless, it’s true. You’re honest and steadfast – the best mate a man could have.’

Yolande interrupted her lover’s eulogy, for she was not seeking praise. ‘Jean, I think this one’s a boy.’

He didn’t move a muscle, but Yolande knew where his thoughts were winging. Jean was thinking that if he married her now and the child was male, he would have a legitimate heir. He would have good reason to resurrect their tenuous claim to Izabel’s lands. And now that Waldin was coming home, to reinforce their hand...

He took Yolande’s chin and tipped her face to his. ‘I thought it was impossible to tell?’

Yolande crossed her fingers under the bedcover. ‘So it is. But I sense it strongly, Jean. This one will be a boy.’

‘An heir,’ he murmured. ‘An heir.

Wisely, Yolande let his thoughts run on. If Jean believed the babe was a boy, he might yet marry her. He had something worth passing on to his heirs these days. Was it wrong for her to use the unborn child as a weapon – if that was the only weapon she had? She was only trying to ensure that the child was born legitimate.

‘Waldin has such a reputation, Yolande. With him home, every soldier in Brittany will flock to our standard.’ Jean’s face glowed as in his mind’s eye, ambitious dreams were fulfilled.

‘Only if God wills it, Jean.’ Yolande touched his arm. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to use the arrival of that wastrel of a brother as an excuse to make an honest woman of me after all these years?’

‘Nay, love,’ he had the grace to look ashamed, ‘you know I would have married you years ago, except that–’

‘It was not politic. I know. Do you remember that Frenchwoman you pretended to woo?’ She clucked her tongue, gently mocking. ‘No, don’t start apologising. You explained it years ago. I understood your wish to better yourself.’

Jean looked at her past jutting brows. ‘Aye. And then that fire – on my soul, I feared to provoke the Count.’

‘The fire is one event I’m not likely to forget. My poor mother... But let’s turn our minds to the future. Waldin–’

‘Waldin will be here before we know it,’ he said. ‘He will strengthen our position immeasurably.’ He picked up her hand. ‘Let’s marry when Waldin gets here.’

‘What?’ Triumph disarmed her.

Jean tweaked a braid, and his mouth turned up at the corners. ‘You heard. Waldin can witness our wedding. Let’s have one legitimate child.’

Yolande gulped and gazed wordlessly at her lover through a rush of tears. Her child was saved. One at least was saved.

‘Can you wait?’

‘What, till Waldin gets here? Of course.’ Then she caught his meaning. He must be stupid with fatigue. ‘Oh, I see. The babe. That’s not a problem, the babe’s not due till after Lammas.’

‘Good.’ Relaxing back onto the mattress, Jean shut his eyes. ‘Now that we’ve raked that one over good and proper, can we go to sleep, please?’

Yolande remembered Gwenn. ‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’

He groaned and lifted weary lids. ‘Can’t it wait?’

‘No. It concerns Gwenn. I don’t think you realise that she’s a young lady, Jean. We ought to plan her future.’

‘Plenty of time for that,’ airily, Jean waved that worry aside. ‘Let’s see ourselves wed first.’

Yolande studied her lover, trying to assess whether she was pushing him too far. She didn’t want to lose what ground she had gained. It might be no bad thing to leave settling Gwenn’s affairs till after her own wedding. Her belated marriage might not confer legitimacy on Gwenn, but it would make her a more attractive proposition.

Yolande nestled against Jean’s side, resting her head on his shoulder while one hand pushed open the neck of his chainse and drew circles among the hairs on his chest. There was grey intermixed with the brown, they were neither of them growing any younger. ‘I pray you are right,’ she said softly, ‘but I’m not so sure that we do have plenty of time.’

‘God’s bones, of course there’s time. We’ve years of living left to do.’

Yolande spread her fingers on his chest. ‘I daresay I’m wrong, indeed I hope I am, but I have noticed that Gwenn seems to spend a large portion of her day with one of the men-at-arms. It would be dreadful, would it not, if she were to get herself,’ a deprecating smile touched the corners of her mouth, ‘into the same state that I find myself.’

Jean caught her hand and stilled the circling movements. ‘I’ve noticed nothing. You must be mistaken. None of them would presume...’ Jean watched Yolande arch an immaculate eyebrow. ‘Who is it?’

‘Ned Fletcher.’

‘Fletcher? I trust Fletcher. I let him take her riding.’

‘Exactly. Think of the opportunities that presents.’

‘Ned Fletcher?’ Jean drummed his fingers on the back of Yolande’s hand. ‘I own you’ve surprised me. I’d not have thought it of that lad. He’s one of my best – responsible and hard-working.’ Impatiently, he thrust back his hair. ‘Damn it all, Yolande, I like the boy. I’d hoped to make him sergeant.’

‘I like him too, Jean. But don’t you see, that makes him even more dangerous.’

‘You don’t think he’s had her already? No one will want her if she’s lost her virtue.’

‘No. I’m prepared to take my oath that they are both innocents. You should have seen the way he blushed when she fluttered her eyelashes at him this evening.’

‘The hussy. It would be damned inconvenient if she fancied herself in love with him. Does she?’

‘I think not. But you know what a baggage Gwenn can be. She has discovered the effect she has on the boy, and cannot help but try out her wiles on him. The result is that the poor lad is being teased mercilessly. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to be cruel, but you know Gwenn, she has to test everything to the limits.’

‘Something will have to be done, I agree. I’ll keep an eye on them. I won’t have my Gwenn wasting herself on some peasant boy who couldn’t keep her in clogs. I had it in mind for her to marry a wine merchant in Vannes, Dagobert by name.’

‘No, Jean. Not Vannes. Gwenn hates Vannes.’

Jean looked down his nose at her. ‘The whim of my daughter does not come into this.’

‘It’s more than any whim, Jean.’

Her objection went unheeded, and the sensuous mouth tightened. ‘Marriage is a matter of politics,’ Jean said, mouthing the beliefs of his class. ‘Daughters marry to suit their parents, and if it suits me to make an alliance with one of the richest men in Vannes, she’ll obey me. However,’ the muscles round his mouth relaxed, ‘as we are to be married soon, I think I’ll commence negotiations in another quarter. Since our household is to turn respectable, and Gwenn’s brother,’ he placed tender fingers on Yolande’s belly, ‘will claim your mother’s lands, we’ll want more than a vintner for our eldest daughter.’ He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘By St Patern, I’m worn out. If I promise to look into this, will you let me get some sleep?’

Yolande smiled. ‘I will. Good night, Jean.’

He reached for the lantern, and snuffed out the flame. ‘Good night, my love.’

Chapter Twelve

At dawn two days later, Gwenn went to the stables to meet Ned for their early morning ride as had become their custom. The day was bright and clear, so clear it seemed to shine.

When Gwenn entered, Ned was securing the girth on Yolande’s brown mare. He greeted her with a warm smile, and hoped he was managing to conceal the effect she always had on his heartbeat. ‘Good morning, mistress. Here is Dancer all saddled up.’ Yolande had asked Gwenn to exercise Dancer while she was carrying.

‘My thanks, Ned. Where are we going today?’

‘I thought we could aim for Locmariaquer.’

‘Locmariaquer? But won’t that take too long? Can you spare me so much time?’

Ned grinned, and answered as lightly as he could. ‘I’d give you all the time in the world, mistress, if it was mine to give.’ He led Dancer and the grey gelding that he was to ride out into the yard.

‘But your duties?’

‘I don’t have to report for duty till this afternoon.’

‘So we have the whole morning?’

‘We have the whole morning.’ Ned linked his hands and squired Gwenn onto Dancer. ‘But don’t tell me you’ve been to Locamariaquer already? I wanted to show the old earthworks to you. There’s a curious temple that some say was used for human sacrifice by monsters from the past.’ He contorted his face into a hideous grimace and brought it as near to hers as he dared.

Smiling, Gwenn pushed him away. ‘Why is it that you’re always trying to scare me out of my wits, Ned?’

‘I don’t know. I must like it when you scream.’ Ned turned away. ‘But if you’ve seen them before...’

‘You can still show them to me. I’ve not been there since your cousin left, and when I saw them I was...somewhat distracted. I’d love to see them with you.’

‘Good. And on the way you can tell me all about your Uncle Waldin. And tournaments, and jousting, and–’

‘I don’t know much!’

‘Tell me what you do know.’

They were all but out of the yard when Raymond hailed them from the top of the manor steps.

‘Hold on you two! I’m to come with you.’ Rubbing bleary eyes, Raymond stumbled into the stables, and thereafter a series of bumps and scuffles and muted swearing drifted out on the dawn breeze.

Gwenn groaned. ‘I was afraid of this.’

‘Mistress?’

‘It’s nothing, Ned. Just some stupid idea that has lodged in Mama’s head. Raymond’s been sent to keep an eye on us.’

Ned looked sharply at Gwenn and felt his colour rise. ‘You mean...b...but Mistress Gwenn, I’d never...’

‘I know, Ned.’ Gwenn sighed. ‘We’re friends. But others, apparently, have other ideas.’

***

That afternoon, Ned took his turn on guard at the top of the tower. Cooing white doves roosted in nesting boxes all round the rooftop. Ned was bored. His scalp itched. Removing his helmet, he ran a hand through his fair thatch of hair, which he wore shorter these days, like a veteran. Since Alan had gone his own way, Ned had discovered within himself an untapped well of personal ambition. He wanted to succeed here. He wanted to win promotion. He crammed his helmet back on and diligently scanned the well-ordered village laid out below.

The road to St Clair’s holding was empty, with not even a drover in sight. The weather was warm for April, and the air still. From the village, Ned could hear the clanging of the blacksmith at his forge. Geese honked on the marsh. Mechanically, Ned ran his eyes over Kermaria’s defences. The manor had been transformed in the two years since he had ridden in with his cousin on that litter. Kermaria’s ditch was free of lilies and weeds. The well-shaft had been cleared and repaired, and a trough stood hard by. The cookhouse had been reroofed. The road had been widened. The perimeter wall had been strengthened, but the houses which clung like barnacles to the wall had remained, on condition that they were buttressed. The cottage roofs had been reinforced and doubled as a walkway for St Clair’s sentries.

Most notable of all were the alterations to the manor itself. Mortar been reapplied to the crumbling stonework. The entrance steps had been reconstructed. The village carpenter, Jafrez, had made stout new doors for every archway in the building, even fixing them at the top and bottom of the spiral stairs leading from the common hall to the more private family solar on the first floor. Many had muttered at the rank waste, but Ned looked at the solid iron-studded doors with a soldier’s eye, and he could see that if ever Kermaria were attacked, behind those doors would be a final refuge, a place from which one could make a last, desperate stand.

St Clair’s crowning achievement had been to slap an entire floor on top of the solar, transforming his squat, vulnerable manor into a properly defended tower. This upper floor had a shelter for the guards; and, absurdly, Mistress Yolande had been permitted to turf the old grey pigeons off the raised roofline and replace them with snowy doves. They nestled happily in roosts set in the stonework.

Jean St Clair took his responsibilities seriously. The man might be a knight with people to protect, but what lord in his right mind would lay siege to this place? St Clair’s domain, though improved, remained little more than marshland and mud. What could anyone want with that?

Ned sighed. Nothing ever happened here. Thankfully, it appeared de Roncier had forgotten St Clair existed. The last Ned had heard of his former lord was rumour of him betrothing his daughter to some doddering lord in the Aquitaine. Thank God that Waldin St Clair was due to arrive soon. That should prove interesting. Perhaps, if Ned could prove his worth, the champion might give him the odd piece of advice.

A door slammed, someone was leaving the tower. Ned craned his head to see through the machicolations, and a girl walked into his line of vision. His gaze sharpened. ‘Gwenn,’ he murmured to himself, savouring the sound of her name on his lips. ‘Gwenn.’ Knowing himself unobserved, save for the cooing white doves, he blew her a furtive kiss.

Ned was hopelessly in love. But his love was a sad and secret thing, never to be brought out in the open. He had hidden it from Gwenn; and till today he had hoped he had hidden it from everyone. Love tied him to Kermaria when otherwise boredom would have driven him to follow his cousin. Ned knew his love was doomed. Mistress Gwenn might only be the natural daughter of a knight, but she was as far out of his reach as the moon. She might as well be the daughter of an earl. A lad from peasant stock must keep his eyes from straying to a knight’s daughter.

Normally, Ned denied himself the pleasure of watching her. He did not want to shame her with his love, he did not want her disparaged by it. But now, alone on guard duty at the top of the tower, he could indulge himself. He knew Gwenn liked him. But that, if anything, made his situation more impossible. Ever since she’d set her heart on improving her riding, St Clair had permitted her to ask for him. And until today they had invariably ridden out alone.

Ned had to admit that teaching Gwenn had been as much a torture as it had been a pleasure. He lived for their rides, yet when he was alone with her, things were worse. His fair skin flushed easily, and whenever she was near, his face burned. He was painfully, agonisingly, conscious of her every move. And all the time he must strive to appear unaffected. He had considered leaving, for there were times when the touch of her hand on his as he helped her to her horse was almost more than he could bear. Even when he was not looking at her he could see her bright, teasing eyes; her shining fall of hair; her slender hands on the reins.

When they were alone, Gwenn was never the aloof daughter of the master of the house. She was warm and friendly. And to compound matters, she would tease him. ‘What are you thinking about, Ned Fletcher?’ she would ask, laughing. In vain he would strive to keep the hot blood from rushing to his cheeks. Had she divined that he loved her? She may like him, but what did that signify? Mistress Gwenn had been blessed with an open, friendly nature. She liked everyone. Ned knew he should leave, nay, must leave. This half-life he lived was a barren, futile one. But now Waldin St Clair was arriving, and he had another reason to stay. If he could persuade the champion to teach him swordsmanship, if he could really master that skill, he would be able to find a place for himself anywhere he chose.

Gwenn disappeared round a corner and Ned stepped back from the crenellations onto the parapet walkway. Conscientiously, he reminded himself of his duty. Perhaps another turn about the watchtower would serve to push her to the back of his mind. He had inspected the masonry on the roof last week, but he could do it again. Like that of the lower walls, the pointing was in good repair. Moss and leaves were regularly cleared from the gullies on the ramparts; nests were ruthlessly expelled from the guttering. The only birds permitted on the tower were Yolande’s fluttering doves, which she insisted would make a welcome addition to the household’s diet, though Ned could not recall dove ever being served.

The door of the guardhouse creaked open, and Denis the Red stuck his fiery head out. ‘St Clair wants a word with you.’ Denis jerked his thumb at the stairs. ‘Down in the hall.’

‘Oh? Any idea what it’s about?’

Denis’s freckled face did not show much interest. He hitched up the belt girdling his protruding belly and scrubbed his red crest of hair. ‘Beats me. Joel said St Clair told Captain Warr to pull himself together.’

‘Warr can be sloppy,’ Ned said. ‘He left the targets out last week, and they got rained on.’

‘Aye. Well, you know how the man can’t stomach the slightest criticism. He and St Clair exchanged pointed words, and the upshot is he’s leaving. Says he’s got a woman waiting for him in Vannes, but no one believes that one. I don’t think St Clair thinks much of him for leaving at such short notice. Perhaps he heard you mumbling about going and all. You did mention it at table last week.’

An image of Gwenn, laughing, filled Ned’s consciousness. ‘Aye,’ he said, rather quietly. ‘I remember.’

‘Best go and tell him.’

‘You’re to take my place on guard?’

‘Aye, worst luck.’

‘Don’t forget your helm,’ Ned reminded him. St Clair was a stickler for that.

‘I won’t.’ Denis shook his head grumpily. ‘It’s in the guard-house. I thought I’d escape sentry duty today, having done my stint yesterday, but I happened to be in the hall at the wrong time.’

‘Foraging for food, were you?’ Ned asked astutely and, grinning, he ran lightly down the four twists of stairs.

Sir Jean sat at the top of the board, feet stretched out before the fire. A roll of parchment curled on the table, next to an inkhorn and quill.

Though Ned could not read, he recognised the parchment as being the one he had put his mark on when swearing loyalty to St Clair. St Clair was flanked on the one hand by the lanky Captain Warr, and on the other by his firstborn, Raymond Herevi. Mistress Yolande and two of her women were also in the hall, spinning. Katarin, the baby of the family, who was now a sturdy five year old, had stolen one of the spindles and was playing with it. Behind him, the main door slammed. Without turning round he sensed that Gwenn had come back. She pushed past him, her skirts swishing and her arms full of newly carded fleece, and the smoky atmosphere of the hall was for an instant sweetened with the fragrance of rosemary. Ned stared stolidly at the scroll and struggled to keep the damnable colour from his face.

‘You called for me, sir?’ He saluted his master.

‘Aye.’ St Clair indicated Nicholas Warr – an indifferent archer whom the knight had been forced to promote to captain two years ago due to a lack of seasoned soldiers willing to work for the little he could offer. ‘Warr’s of a mind to leave, and I’d like to know your plans, Fletcher. Will you be following him?’

Ned could feel Gwenn’s gaze boring into his shoulder blades. Now that it came to it, he could not bear to go. It might be hell living near her, but without her... Besides, if he left, he’d never meet Waldin St Clair.

‘I...I’ve no plans to leave,’ he heard himself say. A soft sigh emanated from the direction of the fireplace.

Jean St Clair leaned forwards and rested his chin on his hand, watching Ned sombrely from under grey streaked brows. ‘Good. What say you, Fletcher, to a promotion?’

‘P...promotion, sir?’ Ned was temporarily tongue-tied, and he knew those wretched crimson flags were flying in his cheeks. He heard a throaty giggle.

St Clair tossed him a smile. ‘I regret Warr leaving us, but if you will accept the position of sergeant, that will ameloriate the loss. Who knows, one day you might step into his boots.’

Ned was so astounded, that he forgot his discomfiture.

‘And, Fletcher?’

‘Sir?’

‘I feel confident that you will not abuse this new position.’

Ned was trying to come to terms with his astonishing change of fortune. This was the answer to his prayers. ‘N...no, sir,’ he blurted, stammering like a dolt.

Sir Jean’s lean face warmed. ‘You show promise, my lad. You’re hard-working, diligent, I trust you–’ an audible chuckle from the fireside brought the jutting brows down, ‘-in almost every respect. Besides, I have the feeling you’ve been under-employed of late. You’ve had a restive look about you. What say you?’

Ned pulled his scattered wits together. ‘I’d be honoured, sir.’

‘Good man.’ St Clair jabbed a finger at the parchment. ‘Put your mark there. Warr and Raymond will witness it.’

Scarcely able credit this was truly happening, Ned picked up the goose quill. Gwenn drifted to her father’s elbow and every nerve in Ned’s body reacted to her nearness. It was the most exquisite agony. Was love always so painful? he wondered miserably.

Bright, brown eyes smiled boldly at Ned. ‘Well done, Ned,’ she said.

The knight glowered at Gwenn. ‘Back to the women, daughter,’ he said, tight-lipped, and he plucked his riding switch from the trestle. ‘And by St Patern, what do you think you are about, addressing him,’ he sounded as though he was talking about the dirt beneath his feet, ‘as Ned?’

Gwenn lowered her gaze, but Ned was not deceived by this apparent humility. Her pretty mouth was sullen. If St Clair noticed that look – and how could he fail to? – his wrath would be fearful. Would she never learn? St Clair doted on her, as he did all his children, but such looks never failed to wake a demon in him. The knight sucked in a breath.

‘Are you listening to me, girl?’

‘Aye, Papa.’

Sir Jean put his crop under Gwenn’s chin to force it up. Ned winced. ‘Have the courtesy to look at me when you’re talking to me, daughter. And wipe that defiant smile from your lips.’

‘Aye, Pa...sir. My apologies, sir.’

‘His name,’ Sir Jean jerked his head at Ned, ‘is Fletcher to you, or Sergeant. Do you hear?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Fletcher,’ Sir Jean repeated.

‘I’m not deaf.’

The knight’s moustache bristled.

Quickly, Gwenn gave a bob of a curtsy. ‘I’m sorry, Papa, but knowing N–’ swiftly she corrected herself, ‘Fletcher so well, I forgot.’

‘He’s a hired man,’ Sir Jean said, in clipped tones.

Grimly, Ned stared at the oak table and wished himself back in England.

‘A free man.’ Gwenn said this lightly, but with an edge that was not lost on her father.

‘He hires himself out for pay,’ her father said scathingly as though that were the most damning condemnation one man could level at another. And in his eyes, perhaps it was.

‘Raymond calls him Ned.’

‘Over-familiar of him, I’d say, but a different case entirely. And don’t ask me why, because you know very well. Raymond’s a man.’

Raymond smirked.

St Clair flexed his riding switch. ‘I’d use this on you, mademoiselle, if I thought it would do any good, but no doubt your hide is as tough as a donkey’s.’ And to Ned’s inexpressible relief he smiled and cast his whip onto the board. ‘Pick up that spindle, girl.’

Meekly, Gwenn turned on her heel, but her eyes flashed.

‘If I hear you call him Ned again, it will mean a birching.’ Something about his daughter’s posture gave Sir Jean pause. He stared keenly at her slight back for a moment or two, stroked his moustache into place, before turning his attention back to the young Englishman.

‘Now, Sergeant Fletcher.’ His master smiled with charming formality. ‘About your remuneration...’

***

Three weeks later, a leggy stranger whose limbs looked as though they had been flung together, swaggered across the drawbridge of François de Roncier’s main residence, Huelgastel. Bow and quiver were slung over one bony shoulder, and his left forearm was bound with the leather guard of an archer.

Though the castle’s drawbridge was lowered, the gatehouse was shut. The spy-hole in the central door was closed. The man, who was in his late thirties, rattled the door, and when that failed to gain any response, pounded on it with his fist. ‘Hey! Wake up sluggards! I’ve information for Captain Malait.’

Nicholas Warr, archer, had been furious when Jean St Clair had criticised him for slackness. The knight had complained when Warr had asked for a couple of men to spare some time to make more targets. St Clair had had the cheek to infer that it was Warr’s fault they were damaged, when everyone at Kermaria knew the man’s penny-pinching, miserly ways were to blame. The targets had not been replaced since St Clair’s father’s time, and it was only thanks to Warr’s good management that they had given as much service as they had. Not content with that, St Clair had criticised the condition of the spare bows and arrows, not to mention Warr’s method of training the villagers...

Nicholas Warr never stayed anywhere his talents were not appreciated. He had wasted no time in informing Jean St Clair that he had a woman waiting for him and that he was to be married. This had been no lie, but he had not seen the woman for some months, and when the archer had reached his lady-love, he had found himself turned down for a cooper. A cooper! The faithless woman had said she wanted someone who paid her more attention. She wanted someone who wasn’t about to go and get himself killed. Storming off, Warr had drunk his pay away, and then, too proud to go back to St Clair and admit that his woman had deserted him, and that he had been in the wrong, he had decided to head for Huelgastel. Warr was bent on refilling his purse. He had done Otto Malait a good turn once. He hoped the Viking would not have forgotten it, for Malait was to help him gain admittance.

The archer was betting that the Count, St Clair’s old adversary, would be anxious to learn that Waldin St Clair was coming home to roost. Warr could also tell him about St Clair’s forthcoming marriage. He had been quick to see the possibilities. Here was an easy way to feather his nest, for the Count would doubtless pay handsomely for the information. Warr had intended coming here three week ago direct from Kermaria, but after being jilted the prospect of a few weeks’ indulgence had been more temptation than he could stand.

But now, with his wings clipped by a depressingly light purse, Nicholas Warr wished he had come earlier. His idiotic fling was over and he felt desperate. Perhaps they would ignore him. Or perhaps they would listen and then throw him out. Perhaps he should have stayed put at Kermaria. Admittedly the money was poor, but one could always fill one’s belly there.

The peep-hole squeaked open and a blue, bloodshot eye with a mean gleam peered out. ‘State your name, and business,’ the owner of the eye said.

‘Nicholas Warr, archer.’

‘We’ve a full complement of archers.’ The peep-hole slid back with a click, and Warr was left contemplating a blank oak door.

‘Jesus wept.’ Warr reapplied his fist to the door.

The peep-hole slid open. The bloodshot eye came back into view. ‘You deaf?’ The gatekeeper’s snarl was muffled by thick oak. ‘Or merely brainless? Go and plague some other soul.’

Nicholas had to catch the guard’s attention fast, before that loophole was sealed. He took his purse from his belt and shook what he had left of his pay. Being all but empty after three weeks’ riotous living, the purse didn’t make a very convincing noise. Not to be daunted, Warr ploughed on, ‘I fought with Otto Malait in seventy-three.’

‘They all say that.’ The eye rolled disparagingly at Warr’s slender purse.

Losing heart, he tried to make his last coins chink more loudly. ‘It would be worth your while.’

‘And who’ll pay me? You?’ The porter sneered. ‘That wallet sounds more like a baby’s rattle than anything else. What will you pay me with, seashells?’

‘It would be worth your while,’ Warr repeated, tucking his purse back into his belt and speaking fast while the window yet gaped. ‘It’s true I haven’t got much, but you will be rewarded. I must speak to Captain Malait. I’ve valuable information to pass on to the Count.’ The eye blinked. Warr hoped its owner was listening. ‘It would be worth your–’

‘It would mean a flogging if you’re lying.’