Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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In despair, the archer resorted to the truth. ‘Do I look as though I’m lying? Christ on the Cross, you noticed for yourself that my purse is as hungry for coin as I am for food. I need money. Is it likely that I’d be wasting my time and yours if I didn’t think that what I had to say was worth something? Let me in. Please.’

The peep-hole snapped shut. Warr’s nostrils dilated. There was a hollow thud, a grating of bolts which set his teeth on edge. As he heard the heavy iron bars being slowly drawn back in their sockets, he felt the first drops of rain.

Warr spread his hands and blinked gratefully up at a dull sky. ‘My thanks,’ he said. It was not that he believed in the Almighty, but he felt a need to express his gratitude. And just in case, he added, ‘I owe you one.’

***

Slumped in a kingly high-backed chair with padded seat and back-rest, de Roncier heard Captain Malait and the archer out with an ever-darkening brow.

‘So you see, mon seigneur,’ Warr summed up, ‘Jean St Clair is planning to marry Yolande Herevi.’

‘And you say she’s carrying?’ the Count demanded.

‘So her maid, Klara, maintained.’

François rubbed the bridge of his nose, and as his fury rose, so did his high colour.

Having shot his bolt, Nicholas Warr felt sweat break out on his brow. He chewed the inside of his mouth and hoped his bringing this news would not misfire on him; de Roncier looked to be taking it extremely ill. Was the Count a man to punish the bearer of bad tidings? Warr wished he had thought of that earlier instead of waiting until he was so hard-pressed.

‘I’m sorry, mon seigneur, if this news distresses you,’ Warr said, as coolly as he could, ‘but I thought it in your best interests that you should know, so that you could make plans. I thought–’

De Roncier levelled callous hazel eyes at him and Warr’s blood went cold. ‘You thought you saw your way to making a profit.’

‘I...I assure you, mon seigneur...’

The Count stood up. ‘See he’s paid, Malait, and boot him out.’

‘Come on, Warr.’

Warr hung back. ‘Mon seigneur?’

‘What now?’

‘I’d be grateful for a position,’ the archer blurted, stammering to a halt when he saw a cunning, feral gleam enter the Frenchman’s eyes.

‘I’m not convinced I would benefit by employing a loose-tongued serf,’ de Roncier murmured.

Warr was a free man, but he let that one glide past him. ‘L...loose-tongued?’

‘You betray your former master very easily.’

Only a lie would serve Warr now. ‘May I burn in sulphur, but St Clair never paid. Do I give a man my loyalty, if he never shells out?’

François hesitated. He could well believe that St Clair hadn’t settled up. What man did if he could get away with it? Why, he himself often delayed doling out for as long as he could – it was only prudent. And St Clair’s estate could not yield much. He subjected the archer to a thorough scrutiny. ‘And if I employ you – and pay you, naturally...’

‘You’d not regret it. I’m one of the best archers in the Duchy.’

‘Do we need another archer, Captain?’

Otto exchanged a brief look with Warr. He had not forgotten the skirmish when Warr had saved his life. A brace of Englishmen had had him at a disadvantage, when suddenly blue and white feathers had sprouted from one assailant’s chest. Warr’s quiver was full of arrows fletched like that. ‘We can always use a good man,’ he said. He did not like to be beholden to anyone, and this, an easy thing, would set the tally straight.

‘Very well. See he’s tested at the butts. If he hits the spot, add his name to the roll.’

‘Aye, mon seigneur.’

***

Returning from the butts with rain-dampened clothes, Otto Malait and Nicholas Warr strode into a vast hall which was abuzz with talk. The fire gushed forth an acrid blue smoke which caught in the back of the throat and lay across the room like a fenland fog. Supper was on the trestles, and the rich smell of roast boar filled their nostrils. Stools creaked. Goblets clattered. Knives flashed over piled trenchers. Hounds snarled and fought over scraps in the marsh – the soiled rushes under the tables. Cats with thievery in mind streaked between dogs’ legs.

‘Come, Warr, don’t look so down at mouth.’ Otto headed for a vacant space on the soldiers’ table near the door. ‘I’ll enrol you, though I’ve seen you do better.’

‘My thanks, Captain Malait. I’m grateful,’ Warr said, eyeing what was left of the pig with apparent misgivings.

The men who had got to the roast ahead of them had taken the best cuts, and all that was left was a massacre of gristle and bone to which scarcely a strand of flesh clung. The meat had been charred almost to a cinder, so it must at one time have been hot, but it was now cold, congealed, and frankly unappetising.

‘You don’t look it,’ Otto said.

‘No, I am grateful,’ Warr assured him, and sat down.

‘What was it like at Kermaria?’ Otto asked, and hewing a gobbet from the burnt offering, thrust what was left at the archer. The hands that took the platter from him were long. Nicholas Warr had surprisingly thin bones for a military man. Broad-shouldered though, he got that from his archery, but otherwise too lanky for Otto’s taste. Now Warr had enlisted with de Roncier, he would be given the chance to prove his loyalty by telling them all he could.

The archer cut what he could from the ill-fated boar and resigned himself to a night’s indigestion. ‘It was warm at Kermaria,’ he said, dryly.

Otto’s wits were never at their sharpest when he was intent on bagging a wine jar. He frowned. ‘Warm? That damp, bog of a place?’

‘You misunderstand, Captain. It was the food I was referring to.’ Warr looked round the ring of gobbling, hard-faced men-at-arms, ‘and the people.’

Otto let his eyes wash coldly over the archer. ‘The people? You’ve gone soft, Warr, since I knew you. Wasn’t it you who once boasted that you never allowed affection to come into your working relationships?’

‘Did I say that?’

Otto laughed, and choked as some pork went down the wrong way. ‘Bones of St Olaf! You’re showing your years.’

‘We’re all showing our years, Malait,’ Warr said soberly.

‘There was someone else who lived by your old precepts, Warr, Alan le Bret.’

‘Le Bret?’ The archer nodded. ‘I knew him, briefly. He left St Clair. Must have been two years back.’

‘That fits. At least he showed sense. Thank God you can rely on some folk. Your change of heart shook my faith in human nature. Warmth, indeed,’ Otto snorted. ‘Tell me, what happened to the stripling with an unruly conscience – Ned...Fletcher, I think it was. Is he at Kermaria?’ Now there was a handsome lad. Otto had never met a better-looking boy than Ned Fletcher. Though he had found a friend at Huelgastel and was fond of him, this new lad could not touch Ned Fletcher on looks. A sturdy lad, with rosy cheeks. Otto sighed, he had always regretted not being able to get closer to young Fletcher.

‘Ned Fletcher’s still there.’

Mouth full, stained teeth grinding his meat like a mill, Otto grunted with satisfaction. ‘Aye. That fits too.’

***

‘Maman?’ Groping his way through the half-light on the landing outside the Dowager Countess’s bedchamber, François pushed the heavy door-curtain aside with a shove that set the curtain rings rattling.

‘Who’s that?’ Marie de Roncier’s voice came querulously from the bed. She had slipped on the worn flags in the bailey a month ago and damaged her hip, and had been carried up to the round tower room she’d converted to her private use. She was a truculent patient, and she had gone unwillingly, fighting every step of the way and invoking curses on anyone within range. She did not know it, but she was not likely to leave her chamber on her own feet again.

‘It’s me, Maman.’ François’ foot caught on something on the floor. A leather mug. ‘God’s Blood! Why doesn’t that maid of yours light more torches? It’s blacker than Hades in here.’ He bent for the mug, setting it on the stone ledge which ran partway round the wall.

‘Hades is the right word for it,’ came his mother’s bitter response.

‘Maman, don’t be like that.’ His mother’s tireless complaining was one of the reasons François had been avoiding her company of late. He knew it was hard for her, a vigorous woman, to be so cooped up, but if she sweetened her tongue, he might beat a path to her chamber more frequently.

‘You should come to see me more often,’ she said, unaware that her plaintive echoing of her son’s guilty conscience merely served to alienate him further. He would not be visiting her now if it were not for the tidings from Kermaria. ‘My hip aches. I’m bored. No one comes to talk to me.’

‘You’ve got Lena,’ François pointed out. His mother recited complaints as lovingly as a priest mouthed the Creed.

‘Lena! That girl’s got a skull made of wood. How would you like to be laid up in bed with only a foolish chit of a girl for company?’

A grin flickered across François’ dissolute mouth. It was quickly repressed, but not before his needle-eyed mother had spotted it. A reluctant light gleamed in her black eyes.

‘Ever the ladies’ man, eh? I should have thought getting that whey-faced Countess of yours with child was enough to keep you fully employed.’

‘Maman, please,’ her son replied, in pained tones. For all that Eleanor was barren and he must have a son, he had a fondness for his Countess, which bade him take her part. ‘You should not speak of Eleanor in so disparaging a manner.’

Marie laughed. She wanted her son to have a male heir as much as he did, but there was a perverse pleasure to be derived from his discomfiture. ‘Don’t bother to deny it, François. Do you think I don’t know why Lena never answers my calls in the long, dark hours? She never answers because she can’t hear me, not being in her own bed but warming another’s.’

A look of remorse flitted across her son’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Maman. I never thought you’d have need of her in the night.’

‘I do have need of her in the night. It’s not that I mind your copulating with my maid–’

‘Maman!’ The florid cheeks brightened with colour. François found his mother’s coarseness a constant embarrassment. It was not seemly that a dowager countess should use such language.

‘But will you at least ensure that someone else is put in Lena’s place, so my calls don’t go unheeded?’ François’ coppery head dipped in brusque agreement and, feeling that she had emerged from the exchange the victor, Marie was able to regard her son with a touch more warmth. ‘What brings you to my lonely tower today, François?’ She was unable to resist one final dig – it made her feel so much better. ‘Missing me, were you?’

‘I received word from Kermaria.’

‘And?’

‘Waldin St Clair is coming home.’

Marie furrowed her brow. ‘Why should that worry you? Waldin is but one man. What can one man do?’

François shifted impatiently. ‘From a military point of view it could be disastrous. Waldin is bound to attract recruits.’

‘So?’ Marie shrugged. ‘You weren’t thinking of laying a siege? We agreed to let St Clair and his hatchlings moulder away in their stinking bog. They cannot topple you from your perch.’

‘I wouldn’t stake my life on that, Maman.’

Marie examined her son’s expression. ‘You’ve learned more. Don’t spare me, I can shoulder it. It’s my hip that’s weak, not my spine.’

‘He’s going to marry Yolande Herevi.’

‘That strumpet!’ She responded scornfully, unable to perceive why her son’s hazel eyes were so strained. ‘I don’t know who your informant was, François, but he must have been mistaken.’

‘I have every confidence the man was telling the truth. And God’s Teeth, Maman, you know the blood that flows through Yolande Herevi’s veins also flows through ours. It’s not as though she crawled out of the gutter.’

Marie bridled, and her dark eyes snapped. ‘My sister threw herself in the gutter when she married below her station!’

‘Gwionn Herevi was a squire and bound for higher things, if I heard the story aright. He was no nameless beggar.’

‘I will not discuss my sister’s marriage.’ Marie’s damaged hip twinged, and delicately she kneaded her side. ‘Oh, let St Clair marry his whore, the matter’s beneath contempt. We should ignore it.’

François was galled by his mother’s indifference, but he had saved the juiciest morsel till last. Casually, he threw it at her. ‘My informant tells me she’s breeding.’

His mother’s body jerked. ‘What?’

‘Another case entirely, eh, Maman?’

The pallid lips worked. ‘That bitch could not be in pup – she must be turned forty!’

The vulgar turn of phrase made François flinch. ‘She’s thirty-five,’ he said, mildly.

‘Saint Félix protect us!’ Age-spotted fingers clenched on the bed furs. ‘What if she produces another boy?’

‘Exactly. If Yolande Herevi becomes Yolande St Clair, and has a son, that son would have a claim to half my lands would he not?’

Marie lay motionless. Her face was glazed, her eyes burned. Her pupils were tiny, hard and shiny as jet beads on a rosary. Down in the inner bailey, François could hear the drumming of many feet as the castle guard drilled in the yard. Rooks cawed on the battlements. But in his mother’s chamber, there was only a stifling, oppressive silence. The window slits were too slim to allow much sunlight in, and in the eternal twilight of the room, his mother could easily be mistaken for a corpse.

François repressed a shudder and, blaming the suffocating sick-room atmosphere for his dark imaginings, went to the window splay to breathe in fresh air. An unlit torch was propped against the log basket by the fire. Dipping the flambeau into the fire, he jammed it in a wrought-iron wall sconce. His hair brightened to flame in the light. ‘Maman, what do you advise?’

‘Nothing. We should do nothing.’

The heavy jaw sagged. ‘Nothing? But we cannot allow them to marry!’

The bedridden woman gave a slender smile. ‘Yes, we can. And we will. There is nothing else we can do. We have no cause to take action against St Clair, and it might prove to be needless.’

‘No cause? Needless?’

‘Let me finish, François. She might produce a boy, but who’s to say she will? She’s had two daughters already, and may produce another. No court in the land would uphold the claim of a girl against you, my son.’

‘I agree St Clair’s mistress could produce a girl, but what’s to prevent her having a boy later on? If that happened, we’d have to go through this all over again.’

She tutted. ‘Ever eager to ford streams before you’ve reached them. Learn to wait. The woman may contract a fever, St Clair could drop dead – anything might happen. Don’t get in a lather until events are come upon you. Well, will you wait?’

‘Very well. I’ll hang back till the bitch births. And if it’s a girl, I’ll follow your woman’s plan. But if it’s a boy, I’m for adopting my own strategy. I’ll not stand by and let some whelp of St Clair’s filch my birthright.’

Marie withdrew into her pillows, satisfied. ‘I’d like to rest now.’

‘Very well, Maman.’ He strode to the door. ‘You should come down to the hall. I’ll have someone knock up some crutches for you, we can’t let you fester up here forever.’

‘Crutches?’ Marie hauled herself up on one elbow, black eyes flashing contemptuously. ‘Crutches?’

‘Be reasonable, Maman. It would do you good to get out and about.’

‘I’ll have you know I’d rather be seen in my winding sheets than hopping about on crutches!’ The milk-white cheeks were mottled with anger.

‘As you wish.’ François bowed. ‘I was only trying to help.’

Muttering, Marie subsided. ‘Go away, François. Crutches? I don’t need any dammed crutches. What I need is some peace, so I can sleep and recover properly.’

‘Very well, Maman. I’m going. And I’ll stay my hand as far as Kermaria is concerned, at least until the babe is born. After that, we shall have to see.’

Chapter Thirteen

One morning not long after Easter, His Grace Geoffrey, Duke of Brittany, was twitching and fretting outside the King of France’s pavilion, in a cleared area in the woods outside Paris. Tents belonging to both entourages sprouted like brightly coloured mushrooms all over the stubbly field.

Duke Geoffrey frowned at the blue silk tent flap which was tied down despite the lateness of the hour, and spoke to the captain of his hand-picked bodyguard, one Alan le Bret. ‘It lacks but two hours to noon,’ he complained, foot tapping a tent peg. ‘Our young King sleeps late.’ The Duke was in his mid-twenties, a full half-decade older than the King of France. Under a red damask tunic encrusted with embroidered leaves, the Duke wore a chainse of best Reims linen. Bored, he folded the cuffs of his shirt over his tunic sleeves, admired the effect, and turned to address his captain; a dour but efficient fellow who had risen high enough in his favour to be clad not in the Duke’s heraldic colours – black and white – but in his own choice, in this instance the delicate green of good quality homespun that had been dyed with birch. The captain wore his gambeson over his tunic. He was, the Duke had been pleased to discover, a man with a sense of humour if one troubled to dig for it. ‘Methinks our royal host delights in delaying us,’ Duke Geoffrey went on. ‘Philip knows I have to visit my duchy.’

‘King Philip had visitors last eve,’ le Bret informed him, ‘and they did not leave till late, past the third hour.’

‘Did you manage to glean who it was?’

‘Messenger from Flanders.’

Duke Geoffrey’s interest waned. ‘Marriage troubles, I should think. And how did you discover that titbit, Captain?’

Alan folded his lips together and glanced briefly at the royal tent.

‘It couldn’t be,’ amusement lifted the Duke’s lips, ‘that you were visiting the daughter of King Philip’s cook?’

‘Your Grace?’ Keeping his face as blank as a stone slate, Alan stared past his liege lord at a silver fleur-de-lys, flying high on a standard on the top of the French King’s pavilion.

‘You don’t answer, le Bret.’ Duke Geoffrey’s voice took on a warning note, but his eyes were smiling. ‘I think you tell but half your tale. While we wait I’d have you entertain me with the whole, if you please.’

Alan raised grey eyes to his noble lord’s. ‘Your Grace, you may have bought the strength of my arms, but I can’t think you own all of me.’

‘I always knew you were half-hearted in your loyalties.’

‘My liege?’

‘You’re holding out on me. You reserve your strongest member for your private use.’

‘I did but go for a walk and happened to pass this way.’

‘Walk!’ The Duke hooted. ‘I’ve heard it called many things, but walking’s not one of them.’

There was a stir in the royal tent, the flap opened, and a girl emerged. She ran off giggling. Her features were shrouded in her veil, but the men outside the tent got a clear sight of a blushing, boyish face and laughing eyes.

‘So help me, Church and Mass, that was the cook’s daughter, was it not?’ The Duke eyed his captain with malicious delight.

Alan shrugged. ‘I believe the wench is daughter to King Philip’s cook, aye.’

Geoffrey of Brittany gave a bellow of delighted laughter. ‘Snatched from under your nose by no less than a king, eh, le Bret?’

‘Kings can pay more than captains.’

‘So she’s a whore?’

‘Aren’t they all?’

Duke Geoffrey’s face grew sombre, while he thought of his neglected wife, the Duchess Constance. ‘I wouldn’t know, le Bret. It always seems to be too much trouble to find that out.’

Alan le Bret smiled. ‘Just so, my liege.’

The tent flap yawned and Philip of France’s dark, tousled head emerged. The King rubbed his eyes. ‘Good morrow, Brittany. You’re up with the larks.’

The Duke bowed. ‘My apologies, sire. But I’m leaving for Brittany–’

‘Short of funds again?’ the King probed. He was always probing, always trying to stir up conflict between his friend the Duke of Brittany and the Duke’s father, Henry of England, in the firm belief that it might give him the advantage in the ceaseless jostling for power that went on in Henry’s continental dominions.

‘Funds? No, sire. I thought I would pay my respects at my brother’s tomb in Rouen, and continue on into Brittany.’

The Young King Henry of England, Duke Geoffrey’s older brother, had died of dysentery in 1183, a few months after Alan had sighted him at Locmariaquer. Although the Young King had been crowned in his father’s lifetime, he had predeceased his father and never come into his inheritance. The Young King had been a king without a kingdom, and Alan was coming to see that wealth was relative. The Young King’s need for money had been a key factor in the rebellions he had mounted against his father.

Duke Geoffrey, Alan’s liege lord, was Henry Plantaganet’s third son, and never likely to wear the crown. His father favoured the youngest of his four sons, John, while his mother Eleanor favoured Richard. Alan had chosen the Duke of Brittany for his master over Henry for purely sentimental reasons; the Duke’s Duchess, Constance, had family connections in Richmond, Alan’s home in England.

The Duke continued, ‘My wife has an estate on the Morbihan gulf I’ve not yet visited.’

The rivalry which existed between the King of France and the Duke of Brittany, though friendly, was such that Duke Geoffrey would not dream of admitting any weakness, however insignificant, to the French King.

‘Refusing to pay their dues, are they?’ King Philip continued to probe.

‘Certainly not. But it’s time I showed my face.’

‘I understand.’ A calculating look entered the King’s eyes. ‘Pity you’ll miss the tournament though, Geoffrey.’

Geoffrey of Brittany bowed. ‘I am desolate, sire. But there will be other tournaments.’

‘There will be others. You’ll attend my Christmas court?’

Duke Geoffrey refused to be committed. ‘My thanks. I’ll certainly bear it in mind.’

The King waved the Duke away. ‘Go on with you. And may God watch over you.’

‘And you, sire.’

Philip of France ducked back into the blue silk pavilion.

‘Shall I see our tents packed away, Your Grace?’ Alan asked.

‘Do that. I’ve had my fill of pomp and ceremony.’

After two years in the Duke’s service, Alan knew what he meant. Every day, he thanked God he didn’t have the Duke’s responsibilities, but he nevertheless felt that if he had power he would spend less time feasting and jousting, and more time taking his duties seriously. Until he had joined the Duke, he had no idea that people in such high office could be so devil-may-care. But he did have a liking for his lord as a man. ‘We’re to travel light, Your Grace?’

‘Aye. Choose a handful of like-minded men to ride with us, le Bret, and the baggage can follow at its own pace. I’m not of a mind to trail along.’

***

It was the first of May, and Gwenn woke before dawn. She was excited. Lent being over, today was her parents’ wedding day.

Not wishing to disturb Katarin, she contained herself until the first grey strips of light crept over the broad windowsill. Then she eased herself out of bed, dressed swiftly, and grabbed her cloak from the peg on the door. She padded downstairs. Early as she was, she was not the first to rise, for in the hall the fire had been kicked into life. The men were stirring and mumbling in their blankets, preparing to rise.

Gently, she let herself out, pausing for a moment on the top step to draw in a lungful of fresh air. The sky was wearing its palest colours that morning, mostly blue, but strung out in the east were long, feathery clouds fringed with the gentlest pink. Wood-smoke drifted lazily out of the cookhouse and curled about the yard. She could smell bread baking. Pleased her parents should be granted such a beautiful day, Gwenn smiled and stretched.

Absorbed as she was in the quiet glory of the morning sky, she was slow to observe her Uncle, Waldin St Clair, and Ned Fletcher were in the yard. Sir Waldin was leaning against the trough by the whetstone, and Ned – disobediently, Gwenn persisted in calling her father’s sergeant Ned in her mind – was beside him. They had been shaving, and Ned was firing questions at Sir Waldin. Of late Ned had become Waldin’s second shadow, ceaselessly picking her uncle’s brains on matters military. It was becoming quite an obsession with him.

‘And you, sir?’ Ned was asking. ‘Which type of helm would you recommend?’

‘What, in a tourney? If it’s safety you’re after, I’d go for the closed pot, Fletcher. It’s more likely to stay in place, but it’s very restricting in terms of vision, and my personal preference is for one of the lighter ones.’

‘And the disadvantages?’

Ned wanted to know it all, but at that moment Gwenn’s uncle became aware of her presence.

‘Good morrow, niece!’

Blushing slightly, for Ned’s bright blue eyes transferred immediately to her, Gwenn flung her cloak about her shoulders and said cheerfully, ‘Good morrow, Sir Waldin. Sergeant Fletcher.’

‘Fine day for the wedding,’ the champion said, in a friendly manner.

‘It is indeed.’ Gwenn was curious about her uncle. He had not shown himself to be the greatest conversationalist, except with Ned, when it seemed he never stopped, but this had only fuelled her determination to find out more about him. At thirty two, Waldin St Clair was ten years younger than his brother, and in his looks he was far from the courtly champion of Gwenn’s romantic imaginings. She was not, she told herself firmly, disappointed, but he was not at all as she remembered him. Her father maintained an air of easy elegance, and Gwenn had assumed that his brother, the famous victor of many a joust, would have his share of that quality. This was not the case. The two brothers were quite unalike.

This morning, her uncle was scantly clad in linen chainse and breeches. He had rolled up his sleeves to reveal brawny arms thickly covered with dark hairs. The veins on his hands stood out like corded rope. His shirt hung open to the waist, and Gwenn averted her eyes from the mat of vigorous hair covering her uncle’s broad chest. Waldin’s neck was thick and sinewy. His eyes, like his brother’s, were brown; but his brows were blacker and thicker and quirked upwards. His nose was squat and, having been broken more than once, sat slightly askew. Most of his front teeth were chipped or cracked. No one, however partial, could call Waldin handsome, but as the champion had never had any pretensions to vanity, this had never concerned him. There did not appear to be any subtlety in either Waldin’s person or his manner.

He winked at his niece and, plunging his head into the trough, re-emerged scattering bright droplets. He squatted down on his haunches before Ned. ‘Get on with it, Fletcher,’ he said.

Ned grasped Waldin’s head and began shaving the crown.

‘What are you doing?’ Gwenn demanded, as handfuls of thick brown hair dropped to the ground.

Waldin squinted up at her. ‘What does it look like?’

‘Keep your head braced, sir,’ Ned advised, ‘or my hand might slip.’

‘What are you doing?’ Gwenn repeated.

Ned’s hands stopped their work and ardent blue eyes met hers. Gwenn felt her cheeks warm. He ought not to look at her like that in front of her uncle, especially after what her father had said.

‘I’m shaving his hair off,’ Ned said, and his burning eyes came to rest on her mouth.

His naked longing was too much for Gwenn. She looked away. ‘I...I can see that. But why?’

‘It’s an old habit of mine,’ Waldin explained, as Ned reapplied himself to his task. ‘I let it grow to see how I liked it, but I prefer it shaved. I found it convenient when on the tourney circuit, and I see no reason for changing my habits because I have retired. In high summer, when you spend most of your waking hours crowned with a metal pot, you work up a fair sweat. It’s easier to wash a bald pate.’

‘It looks odd. It’s all white,’ Gwenn observed, intrigued.

Her uncle’s lips twitched. ‘You’d be surprised how quickly it browns.’

‘Even when crowned with your helmet?’

‘I don’t spend every second in a helm.’

Ned had worked round to the back of Waldin’s skull, and as the hair there fell away, Gwenn gasped. ‘You’ve cut him, Ned!’

Dismayed, Ned snatched back his hands. ‘Cut him? No, I’m sure I have not.’ But, staring at the jagged red mark which was emerging from under the champion’s hair, Ned felt a twinge of doubt. ‘Sir?’

Sir Waldin ran his hand over the back of his head. ‘You’re alright, lad. It’s nought but an old scar you are uncovering. The consequences of my preference for a lighter helm. Pray continue.’

Ned resumed shaving, and when he had done, the full extent of the scar was revealed. Purple in places, the skin was shiny and puckered up.

Waldin stood up, flexed his knees, and ran an appraising hand over Ned Fletcher’s handiwork. ‘Not bad.’

‘It will need doing again,’ Ned said, rinsing the razor in a bucket.

Waldin gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Aye. I reckon on once a month.’ A bushy brow rose. ‘You volunteering, lad?’

‘If you’re content to trust me, I’d be glad to do it for you, sir.’

‘Good lad. I’d rather you than that dozy bunch in the hall.’ Waldin nodded his thanks, and Ned, with one last glance in Gwenn’s direction, saluted and walked off. The tourney champion hadn’t missed the way his niece had recoiled on first seeing his scar. Dismay? Or disgust? ‘I’m told it’s not pretty,’ he said. He had not made up his mind what to think of his niece, but he felt duty bound to try and like her. Waldin had the feeling she had been disappointed in him though she had never said as much.

Gwenn stared a moment longer at the mark on his skull and then said in a very matter-of-fact manner, ‘It is quite repellent. I hope, sir, that it no longer pains you.’

Her blunt honesty warmed him and he laughed. ‘I don’t feel a thing.’ His clothes were lying in an untidy jumble by the side of the trough. He picked them up, shrugged himself into his tunic, and in doing so noticed Ned Fletcher’s fair hair shining in the strengthening sun as the young sergeant looked down from the battlements. A silver-helmed guard came to stand at his side and then Ned Fletcher clapped his own helmet on, and Waldin could not mark the difference between them. Poor lad, Waldin thought sympathetically. He’s got it badly. He could ruin himself over her. Waldin had heard his brother and Yolande speaking in disparaging terms of their English sergeant’s infatuation with their daughter. Apparently the lad had been warned off, and if something were not done soon, he was heading for dismissal. A shame, Waldin reckoned, when of the dozen men currently manning his brother’s tower, the sergeant showed most promise. The two men withdrew from his sight, gone into the guardhouse, no doubt.