Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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Waldin’s brown eyes narrowed. ‘Like an inheritance, perhaps?’ he suggested softly. He was hoping his nephew was merely stirring the pot to see what was in it.

Raymond took his time answering. ‘Aye. I’d say an inheritance was worth fighting for. Father, do you not agree?’ But his father’s attention was fixed on the sounds filtering down the solar stairs. ‘Father?’

‘What’s that you said, Raymond?’

‘I was telling my uncle that I wouldn’t risk my neck for glory alone.’

‘No.’ Jean’s eyes were glued to the rafters. He stroked his daughter’s hair. ‘I’ve always needed something to fight for myself.’

Lurching for the wine, Raymond forged on, making what he thought was a winning point. ‘Being the eldest son, Papa, you had something to fight for. Whereas Waldin, being the poor, younger son, had to make do with glory.’

‘I’ve been content, lad,’ Waldin put in, quickly.

‘You might have been. I–’

A muffled shriek leeched the colour from Jean’s cheeks. ‘Sweet Jesus, does she have to suffer so?’

‘Here, Jean, have a drink,’ Waldin suggested. ‘It will help you forget–’

‘Forget? God’s Teeth, Waldin! How the bloody hell do you think I can forget that she is suffering?’

‘It will help you relax.’ Firmly, Waldin pressed an earthenware cup into his brother’s hand. ‘Take it. You look like a death’s-head.’

Jean caught Ned’s sympathetic glance on him and knew he must set an example. An excess of sympathy never made for efficient fighting men, and Ned Fletcher was not the only one of his troop in the hall. Denis the Red and some others had drifted in for their evening meal. The mistress of the household might be fighting for her life, but the evening meals must still be served. Now why had he picked on that unfortunate phrase? God grant that Yolande was not fighting for her life...

Jean cleared his throat. ‘Sergeant Fletcher?’ He was pleased how curt his voice came out.

Ned sat up. ‘Sir?’

‘Do you recall when the armourer said that he’d have the links mended on my spare coat of mail?’

‘Aye, sir. He promised it for the first of the month.’

‘So you could collect it on the morrow?’

‘If you wish, sir.’

‘Leave at first light, will you, Sergeant? That way you should be there and back by sunset.’

‘Very well, sir.’

An agonised groan floated into the hall and though it was muted and cut off sharply, it succeeded in killing conversation. Jean clenched his fingers round his wine cup and stared blankly at the trencher someone had set before him. Desperately he tried to order his thoughts. If it was a boy, he must put his house in order. He didn’t trust de Roncier to let well alone if it was a boy. If the infant was a girl...

Another muffled shriek had him burying his face in his daughter’s soft hair. He felt a tentative touch on his shoulder and looked up. The turnspit was standing beside him, a question in his eyes. ‘Roast beef, sir?’

A platter of beef swimming in red juices was waved under his nose. Jean’s gorge rose and he waved the meat away. ‘Not for me. I’ve no appetite this evening.’ He lifted resigned eyes to his brother. ‘It would appear that it is going to be long night, Waldin.’

Waldin dipped his head in acknowledgement. What they needed was something to speed the passage of time. ‘Mulled wine might help.’

Jean knew it wouldn’t, but he dragged on the best smile he had. ‘My thanks, Waldin.’

Chapter Sixteen

Duke Geoffrey of Brittany had a hunting lodge at Suscinio on the remote Rhuys peninsular. This long arm of land curved around the Small Sea, or Morbihan Gulf, and held back the worst of the weather from the larger ocean – the Morbraz. Miles from the town of Vannes, the land was wild and windswept – even the trees had been bent out of shape. The Duke’s lodge was an unpretentious wattle and daub building with a beaten earth floor, mean as any villein’s hovel. No lady would set foot in the place, which was one of the reasons Duke Geoffrey chose it for his bolt-hole. There were times when he felt the need to escape the restrictions his responsibilities imposed on him, and his lodge at least provided adequate protection from the elements.

That August night, while Yolande St Clair laboured to give birth to her fourth child, Alan le Bret lay on his cloak at his Duke’s side at Suscinio, listening to the wind whistling through the thatch. ‘Makes you shiver to listen to it,’ he said, hands linked behind his head, ‘and everywhere else your people are sweating the fat off their ribs in the heat.’

‘Aye,’ Duke Geoffrey answered, lazily paring his nails with his dagger. ‘It’s always cool here. I hope you don’t resent me dragging you from Rennes, le Bret. Did you have a sweetheart there?’

‘No sweetheart,’ Alan said. ‘And I’m glad you brought me, Your Grace, because I’ve a brother at a monastery on this peninsular, very close by, and a visit’s long overdue.’

‘I didn’t know you had a brother, le Bret, let alone one in holy orders.’

‘He’s a novice and his name is William.’

‘You want leave to see him?’

‘Please. He’s at the monastery of St Gildas and–’

The Duke cut him off with a gracious wave of his hand and reached for the lantern. ‘Granted. But not on the morrow, le Bret. My forester tells me there’s a wolf on the prowl, and I’ve a mind to nail its head on that beam. We’ll be up before dawn and in the saddle all day.’ The Duke stuck his dagger into the beaten earth floor, and closed the lantern, throwing them into inky darkness. His languid voice floated gently through the murk, ‘You may visit your brother the next day, le Bret.’

‘My thanks, Your Grace.’

***

The following morning, in the grey hour before sunrise, the Kermaria cockerel stirred, blinked once, twice, gave his head a comb-waggling shake and tipped his head sideways to listen to the warm, sighing exhalations of the sleeping horses. His black eyes winked up at the sky. It was cloudless as it had been these several months past, and the light would be faint for another half hour. It was not quite time for him to crow, not quite time for him to wake the world and announce that morning had come.

A whisper of sound sent the cockerel’s head swivelling in the direction of the tower. Up there, riding on the soft morning breeze, so weak that it was almost inaudible, was the thin, reedy cry of a newborn infant. Another noise was adrift on the breeze...someone was sobbing, and a phrase was being repeated over and over again. ‘Don’t go, Mama! Don’t go! Mama!’ The voice faded. More exhausted sobbing. But the cockerel had stopped listening, the sounds had no meaning for him. All he knew was that someone else was awake. Early or not, his duty was plain. He flung back his head and crowed the new day in.

***

‘I’ll take the baby down. Papa must be...told,’ Gwenn said, as soon as they’d made her mother’s body decent.

‘Are you sure you want to do it?’ the midwife asked, handing the infant to the dead woman’s daughter with ill-concealed relief.

‘It will be best if he hears it from me.’ Gwenn read concern in Berthe’s eyes and tried to smile. ‘I’m well enough,’ she said. Didn’t duty decree it? ‘In any event, I can’t bear to bide here for another moment.’

‘I understand,’ the midwife said. The commingled smells of birth and death were overpowering for those not inured to them. ‘You tell Sir Jean. I’ll...tidy up.’

Do you understand? Do you really? Gwenn thought bleakly as she stumbled on legs made of wood towards the twisting turn of stairs. Her eyes were sore with the few tears she had shed, but aside from that she felt quite dead. She was cold inside, but it was a numb coldness – as though all the feeling had gone out of her, and she had truly turned to wood. It would have been a relief to have been able to indulge in a fit of shaking and sobbing and screaming.

At the bottom of the stairs, Gwenn snapped off the thread of her thoughts. Cradling the newest member of the family against her breast, she lifted the latch.

Outside, the cock was crowing. A solitary candle, burned to its last inch, guttered in the draught. Her eyes swept the room, seeking her father. Jean had borrowed a pallet and pulled it up to the fire. He was asleep, Katarin beside him. Gwenn’s heart went out to him – to both of them. She must tell him at once. She stepped into the hall.

‘Good morning, mistress!’ Ned said, moving towards Gwenn, smiling. ‘Mistress Gwenn?’ His smile disappeared. ‘What’s amiss? Is the child...?’

On hearing his sergeant’s voice, Jean sat up abruptly, dislodging Katarin. He was at Gwenn’s side before she had time to blink. Lightly, he touched at the bundle in Gwenn’s arm. ‘The child?’

Gwenn strove to keep her features in order. ‘Aye.’ Her windpipe closed up.

Her father plucked at the baby’s wrappings. ‘It looks small. Is it healthy?’ Almost afraid, he stared at his child. A boy, or a girl?

Around them everyone was surfacing. Raymond groaned and groped for a flagon. Waldin yawned and stretched. And all the while Ned’s blue eyes were nailed to Gwenn’s face. So much compassion flowed from him, it was almost her undoing. Ned had guessed. Gwenn felt tears prick behind her eyes and tried to gulp down the lump that was stuck in the base of throat. She must tell her father – and this instant. ‘Aye, the babe is healthy. Papa–’

‘Boy or girl?’ Raymond demanded, knuckling sleep from his eyes.

‘A boy. The boy Papa so wanted.’ Gwenn tried to infuse some joy into her voice, very much aware that it should be Yolande who was presenting the child to her family. Her mother had so wanted to give Jean his legitimate heir. ‘We have a brother, Raymond.’

‘A boy.’ Raymond looked appalled. He hawked and spat into the rushes. ‘Naturally, it would be.’ Twisting round on his heel, he stormed out, without waiting to hear the other, more dreadful part of Gwenn’s news.

Jean strode to the stair door and looked back with his hand on the latch. Gwenn flinched to see his face so wreathed with smiles. ‘I’m going upstairs,’ he spoke with quiet pride. ‘I’m going to see my wife.’

‘No! Blessed Mother, no!’

Her father tossed her an indulgent smile. ‘I know she’ll be tired, Gwenn. I won’t stay long. I won’t exhaust her.’

Thrusting her new brother at Ned, Gwenn launched herself at her father. ‘No. Papa!’ Warm tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. ‘Please don’t. Not yet.’

Jean’s smile faded painfully slowly. Stone-still, he drew in a harsh breath and stared at his daughter in a puzzled, uncomprehending way. ‘Gwenn?’ His voice came loud in the gruesome quiet. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

Gwenn choked down a sob. It was a little like watching someone die from the inside out. ‘Mama has gone to God, Papa.’

Her father’s gaze lifted to the ceiling, halting at the place above which his bed should lie. He aged a hundred years in a moment. White-faced, he stared at the rafters as though his eyes would pierce solid oak and see through to where his wife’s body lay.

‘No. No.’ His voice broke. What evil curse hung over him that now, when his star was in the ascendant, his plans should turn to ashes? He had taken it for granted that Yolande would be at his side. Without her, there was...nothing. ‘How could you let her go?’ His accusation tore at Gwenn’s heartstrings.

‘It...it was a difficult birth. We did our best.’

‘Jesu, Gwenn,’ Jean said quickly, shocked by his hasty words, ‘you don’t have to tell me that. Accept my...my...I’m sorry.’ He waved at the heir who had cost him his beloved wife. ‘But how could it have happened? That puny child.... He’s so small, how could he...?’

‘Papa, your son came early. And with the heat, Mama was not well. He was in the breech position.’

‘A breech,’ Jean muttered, unable to accept what his daughter was telling him. This could not be happening.

Conscious that every eye in the hall was fastened on him, he squared his shoulders. He ought to say something which would demonstrate to the people in his hall that he remained in control of himself. A man who had not mastered his emotions was not, in his mind, fit to master others. He caught sight of Ned Fletcher awkwardly juggling his newborn son from arm to arm. ‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’ he demanded. ‘It’s well past cockcrow. Don’t you have duties in Vannes?’

‘Sir?’ Ned responded, clearly startled. ‘Oh, the coat of mail. Aye, sir. Sorry, sir.’

Jean looked coldly at the bundle in Ned’s arms. ‘And while you’re about it, Fletcher, see if you can find a wet nurse for that.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Jean faced Gwenn. ‘I shall go up now,’ he said, and his tone brooked no argument.

Gwenn bent her head in acceptance. Her father had withdrawn behind a protective shield of authority while his dazed mind absorbed the shock. In time, she prayed, he would heal.

Ned deposited the babe in Gwenn’s arms and went to take his sword from the rack at the other end of the hall. The last thing he saw as he left was Katarin shoving her thumb into her mouth and Gwenn, head bowed to hide her tears, holding the babe in one arm and hugging her sister with the other.

Wondering miserably which of St Clair’s mounts would best suit a wet nurse, Ned blinked, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and went to choose a couple of horses.

***

His commission with the armourer completed, Ned found himself within a stone’s throw of La Rue de la Monnaie. Curiosity drove him on. He wanted to see what had happened to Mistress Gwenn’s old home, and he guided his horse towards St Peter’s Cathedral, which he knew was being rebuilt. He heard the mason’s hammers before he reached the square. Rounding a corner, he drew rein. There was not a trace of the old wooden building, instead the outline of a monumental stone cathedral met his eyes. Its contours were blurred beneath a mesh of scaffolding, and dozens of men were crawling and balancing all along the mesh, like fleas on a dog’s back. Wondering at the scale of the activity, he hailed a passer by. ‘When is the cathedral due to be completed?’

‘Stranger, are you?’ the fellow asked, eyeing him warily.

‘From Kermaria.’ Ned hoped that the man had heard of the place. Kermaria was ten miles off, but ten miles was further than most men journeyed in a lifetime, even the worldly townsfolk.

The man was obviously well travelled and talkative, for his expression softened and he chose to answer Ned’s question. ‘God knows, but I shouldn’t think I’ll live to see it finished. I preferred the old cathedral myself, but a fire started in one of the streets nearby.’ He scratched a hairy ear. ‘It would have been...let me think now, some–’

‘Two years back,’ Ned said thoughtlessly, and could have bitten his tongue out, for suspicion fired immediately in the man’s dark, Breton eyes.

‘Aye. It were two years back. It gobbled the guts of the area and the cathedral was damaged beyond repair. They’re rebuilding in stone. What’s your interest?’

Ned shrugged. ‘None really. I remember the wooden cathedral, from way back. And although I’ve had business in Vannes since then, it has never brought me here. This place has changed.’

‘Oh, aye.’ The man grunted, about to move on.

‘Tell me one thing.’ The Breton stopped but did not look back. Ned knew he was listening. ‘Was Duke’s Tavern burnt out?’

‘Nay. The devil keeps his eyes on that place. The wind changed. The fire didn’t touch the tavern.’

Ned couldn’t resist riding round to the inn. He wondered whether de Roncier’s men frequented the place these days. Now that de Roncier’s business in the area had been concluded, there was no reason why they should be there, but nevertheless Ned felt an uneasy tingle in his spine. He had no plans to go in, intending only to amble past; but when he arrived, he took one look at the dun gelding tethered outside, swore, and swung out of the saddle.

He tossed his reins and those of the mare he’d brought for the wet nurse to the urchin guarding the door. ‘Is that animal’s rider inside?’

The child, a grimy boy of about seven years of age who had lost his front teeth, jerked his thumb at the gloomy interior. ‘Aye. But I should think he’s past riding. He’s roaring drunk, by now.’

Ned sighed and showed the lad a coin. ‘This is yours if you keep an eye on these horses and my gear,’ he said, indicating the rolled-up bundle that was Sir Jean’s valuable hauberk. He hoped the boy was wrong and that the gelding’s owner was not inside. Above all he hoped he would not find himself confronting old friends.

Moving reluctantly inside, Ned found that the boy had not lied. The horse’s rider was in the tavern, and he was drunk, not roaring drunk but drunk enough to give Ned trouble. Raymond Herevi, for the gelding was his, was slumped over one of the trestles close to the door. And Ned’s old comrades-in-arms? Ned glanced swiftly round the room. Thank God, trade was slow, he saw no one he wanted to avoid. A table away from Raymond’s, a man was enveloped in a shabby cloak, dozing and lost to the world. A filthy mongrel slept at his feet, whimpering fitfully. There were a couple of greybeards dicing by the fire, and there was the potboy, Tristan. He had not changed, except that he’d shot up like a beanshoot and was even lankier. Mikael Brasher was not about, and neither were de Roncier’s men. Ned’s conscience was clear, there was no reason he should not meet up with his former comrades – he had not betrayed anyone in signing up with St Clair because his old commission had run its course. Nonetheless, he was relieved not to run into them. He was especially relieved not to run into Captain Malait, whose interest in young men, and himself in particular, Ned had noticed.

Raymond had been supping alone. Green, drink-dimmed eyes gazed morosely at a capacious glass bottle. Only the best wine was bottled in expensive glass. Raymond was not stinting himself. When Ned’s shadow fell over him, he looked up.

‘Hello, Fletscher,’ he said, too far gone to remark upon the coincidence of the sergeant stumbling across him in his old haunt. ‘We never did finish our drinksh last eve.’ He waved inaccurately at the bottle which held enough to put four men with stronger heads than his under the table. ‘Help yourshelf.’

‘My thanks.’ Ned pulled up a stool but didn’t touch the wine. He preferred to drink ale in the day, and in any case, he had yet to find a wet nurse for Raymond Herevi’s new brother.

Raymond noticed Ned’s abstemiousness at once and pounced on him with the missionary zeal of a drunk who cannot bear to see a companion sober. ‘Why aren’t you drinking, Fletscher?’ he demanded, his tongue tripping over almost all the words. ‘Don’t you want to shelebrate my new brother’s birthday?’ Temptingly, he waggled the wine under Ned’s nose. ‘Washamatter, Sergeant? Don’t you want to shelebrate the birth of my father’s legitimate heir? If I can shelebrate it, surely you can?’

Wine sloshed from the mouth of the bottle, pooling like blood on the table. Firmly removing the vessel from Raymond’s uncoordinated grasp, Ned set it to one side. ‘No thank you, Master Raymond.’ He must somehow get Raymond out of here and take him home. And he had that wet nurse to find. ‘Master Raymond–’

‘You can go to hell, Fletscher, if you’ve come to root me out of here. Didn’t my father give you an errand to run?’

‘Aye. I’ve to find a wet nurse for your brother.’

‘A wet nurse for the heir, naturally. I can fend for myself.’

Ned was not about to argue with Raymond. When drunk, he was impossible. ‘I know that, Master Raymond,’ he said, mildly. ‘But your father needs you...’ He broke off, recalling with dismay that Raymond had ridden off without being informed of his mother’s untimely death. He struggled to keep his features from betraying the evil news. He could not tell Raymond now, not here, when he was in this state. But how otherwise to convince Raymond he must go home? Ned was Raymond’s senior by three years, but his position as a hireling negated any advantage he might wrest from his superior age.

Raymond missed Ned’s fleeting change of expression. His finely-cut mouth twisted. ‘Father needs me? Like hell he does. My father has a new son to play with. Hey! Boy! Get me a fresh bottle, will you?’

Coming reluctantly to the conclusion that only strong-arm tactics would work, Ned countermanded Raymond’s order. ‘No, Tristan. Forget the wine,’ he said, firmly. ‘We’re leaving.’ And before Raymond could muster an objection, Ned stood up, hooked an arm through one of Raymond’s and heaved him upright. ‘Come on, Master Raymond. It’s time we headed for La Rue Richemont and the road to Kermaria.’

Ruthlessly, Ned hauled Raymond towards the sun-bleached street. In the tussle, he failed to notice the strings of the young man’s purse had caught on a nail protruding from his bench. The ties resisted the pressure and then snapped, and Raymond’s purse fell like a ripe peach into the rushes.

The cloaked figure stirred, a furtive eye blinked. A hood flopped forwards, obscuring shifty features, and out of sight beneath the worn cloak, long fingers were flexed. There was a rattling, chesty cough, and a heartbeat later the purse was gone.

Hoping that his charge would not get violent, Ned steered Raymond inexorably towards his horse. Feebly, the young man tried to shake him off, but to Ned’s relief he had drunk too much to be effective. ‘Do you think you can ride, Master Raymond?’

Raymond scowled, the street was waving up and down like the Small Sea. ‘Of course I can ride,’ he said, staggering, but when Ned steadied him he flung off his arm. ‘I can always ride. I may not be able to walk, but I can always ride.’

Ned responded with a smile and watched him climb groggily into his saddle.

Raymond belched. ‘Who in blazes do you think you are, Fletcher? What gives you the right to lord it over me and fetch me home like a runaway serf with my tail between my legs?’

Raymond’s tone had sobered considerably, and Ned risked a grin. ‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on you, Master Raymond.’

Raymond struggled into an upright position and took stock of his surroundings. ‘We used to live near here, Ned.’ He stabbed finger at La Rue de la Monnaie. ‘Down there. I liked it better when we lived there.’

‘Did you, Master Raymond?’ Ned kept his face as blank as he could, and mounted. The urchin held out a dirty hand and grinned hopefully.

‘Master Raymond!’ Tristan was loping towards them.

Raymond slewed round in the saddle, clutching his pommel for balance.

‘Master Raymond, one of my customers found your purse.’

Raymond reached for it, swaying, and weighed his purse in his palm to make sure it wasn’t any lighter. He didn’t have much and he wanted to keep it.

Tristan hovered. ‘Excuse me, sir?’ Realising he would not get much sense out of Raymond, the potboy turned to Ned. ‘I...I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying inside, about the wet nurse.’

‘Go on,’ Ned said. ‘Have you someone in mind?’

Tristan seemed to pick his words. ‘Aye. I don’t know her personally, sir, but I’m told there’s a young maid been delivered of a stillborn child. Would...would you like to meet her?’

Ned leaned on his saddle horn. ‘Where does she live?’

‘Live?’ The question seemed to discompose Tristan, who lifted a vague hand and said, ‘Oh, nearby.’

‘She could be here soon?’

‘If I send someone to fetch her, she’ll be here in a flash.’

‘The work’s outside the town,’ Ned told him. ‘Won’t her husband object to her living in Kermaria for a few months?’

‘Husband?’ Tristan went red and shuffled big feet. ‘She doesn’t have a husband, sir. Does that matter?’

It did not matter as far as Ned was concerned, but he couldn’t vouch for St Clair’s reaction. Then he remembered that the knight had not always been married to Lady Yolande. He shot a sideways look at Raymond and said, ‘Matter? No of course not. As long the wench is healthy and her milk is good.’

Tristan hesitated, thinking of the money he’d been offered by the maid’s brother for getting the girl honest work. ‘I’m no expert, sir,’ Tristan said, the thought of the coins inspiring him, ‘but I should think that if the maid has not got her own babe to feed, her milk will be the richer.’

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Ned swung down from the saddle.

‘What’s up, Fletcher?’ Raymond asked.

Ned grinned. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to have that drink with you after all, Master Raymond.’

Raymond’s brain felt as though it was stuffed with clouds, but he rolled off his horse and showed his teeth. ‘Good. I’ll finish that bottle of wine I bespoke earlier.’

With a wry smile Ned flung the horses’ reins at the confused urchin. ‘You’ve to work for your coin today, my lad.’

In the tavern, Tristan was exchanging words with the man who, despite the warmth of the day, was drowned in that unseasonal wool cloak.

On the counter, a wasp wound a wavering path through a pool of spilled mead. Spotting the insect, Tristan took a grey rag from his belt and flicked it aside. The insect spiralled to the floor. Not two feet from where the wasp landed, tucked out of the way behind an upturned barrel, a pedlar’s tray sat on the beaten earth. It was half full of tawdry ribbons and sticky sweetmeats. The wasp, scenting a heaven of sweet delight, staggered like a toper, rose uncertainly into the air and landed amid the sweetmeats. Some ants had beaten the wasp to it, but the wasp was full of mead and not inclined to fight them off; there was enough on the tray to satisfy every wasp in his nest, and the ants too.

The fellow in the mantle, the owner of the tray, left the inn. The decrepit hound cocked a ragged grey ear, whined, and trailed faithfully after him. Having taken the unprecedented step of handing in a purse which rattled with coins, the pedlar had his sister to find; and that being done, he had information to sell. He had a buyer all lined up, for Conan the pedlar had no doubt that a certain French count would pay handsomely to learn what he had overheard in Mikael Brasher’s tavern. Add to that the likely reward for having taken the initiative in installing his sister at Kermaria...

Conan smirked, not only was his luck in that morning, but for once it was paying him to be honest. His handing back of that purse, though it had gone very much against the grain, had been a masterstroke, and he would yet see a profit from it. He had done a good day’s work without even trying.

Tristan put the broached bottle back on a tray with two goblets.

‘Ale for me, if you please,’ Ned said. ‘Wine’s too rich at this time of the day.’ He wanted a clear head when he met the wet nurse.

‘I’ve a strong stomach,’ Raymond declared.

‘Mmm.’ Ned was not going to dispute the obvious.

Grasping firm hold of the bottle, Raymond took refuge in mockery. ‘Ale,’ he sneered. ‘You’re only a beginner, aren’t you, Sergeant Fletcher?’

Suppressing a resigned sigh, Ned reached for his watery ale. He hoped the wench arrived before the level in that bottle sank much lower.

***

Outside his hunting lodge, Duke Geoffrey was examining the rough wolf pelt his huntsman had brought him. ‘A princely beast, eh, Gilbert?’ he said, running his hands over the soft fur.

‘Aye, Your Grace. Quite remarkable. I’ve not skinned a larger one, and he led us a merry dance.’

The Duke’s eyes lit up. ‘He did that. It was fine sport. Three days he eluded us, and–’ The Duke broke off, head cocked to one side. A horseman was approaching. ‘Who’s that?’ he demanded, ready to dive into his lodge. ‘I’m not expecting anyone, and I don’t want to be run to earth for a few days yet.’

The huntsman screwed up his eyes. ‘The horse is yours, Your Grace. Captain le Bret is returning.’

‘Already? It must have been a very brief reunion.’ The Duke emerged from the shadows, and directed a jibe at his captain. ‘Don’t tell me, le Bret, you lost your way and couldn’t find the monastery.’ Alan was the best scout Duke Geoffrey had and they both knew it.

Dismounting, Alan wound his reins round a nearby shrub. ‘My brother wasn’t there, Your Grace.’

‘I’ve heard it’s a harsh regime.’ The Duke hesitated. ‘He’s not...’

‘Dead?’ Alan smiled. ‘No, William’s not dead. Though I daresay he would be if he’d had to stay there much longer. I can see why Pierre Abelard took against the place all those years ago. No, my brother’s very much alive. Apparently the monks have unearthed a rare talent in him. William’s become an artist. He’s become renowned for his wall-paintings, and it seems his talent must be spread around. Another house has borrowed him – he’s repainting their chapel.’

‘So you missed him?’

Alan pulled a rueful face. ‘Aye. And by only a week. But it’s of no moment. I’d not seen him in years.’

‘Pity though. Do you know where he went?’

‘They sent him to an obscure cell tucked away in the forest west of Vannes. It’s dedicated to St Félix.’

‘You could visit your brother later, in a month or two. I can’t spare you just yet,’ Duke Geoffrey said. Losing interest in his captain’s affairs, he looked proudly at the animal skin spread out on the ground.

Taking the hint, Alan followed his Duke’s gaze. ‘You’ve had the head removed,’ he remarked.

‘Aye. I’m having that on the beam, remember? But I don’t need another pelt. Do you want it, le Bret?’

‘I’d be honoured, Your Grace.’

The Duke waved a generous hand. ‘I’ll have it tanned and stretched for you then, to compensate for your missing your brother.’

Alan bowed.