Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Prior Hubert relented. ‘Very well. Brothers Dominig and Marzin will fetch sledgehammers. Stand clear of the wall.’

‘We will,’ Gwenn smiled. ‘Thank you, Father.’ Prior Hubert walked off.

‘Mistress Gwenn, you cannot marry me.’

‘I can.’

‘No. It...it’s disparagement, mistress.’

‘Disparagement...pooh.’ Gwenn dismissed disparagement with a click of her fingers.

‘It is disparagement,’ Ned said. ‘Your father would not be pleased. Don’t you recall how angry he was when–?’

‘I remember, Ned. But Papa is dead. Circumstances have changed. Besides, he trusted you. He charged you with seeing us to Ploumanach.’

‘I’ll see you safely there without you having to marry me.’ Ned knew such an opportunity would never present itself again, but he could not take advantage of Gwenn’s vulnerability. His skin scorched. ‘You know what I feel for you, Mistress Gwenn. But you are safe with me. I’ll not touch you.’

‘Shut up, Ned. The monks are about to break this cell open. I’ve said that I’m marrying you, and there’s an end to it.’

Ned swallowed. ‘You’ll hate me...’

She laid a hand on his. ‘Hate you? Never. I need you to marry me.’

‘You need me to marry you?’ Ned stammered, struck by this original idea.

‘Think, Ned. Prior Hubert is right. If you don’t marry me, what kind of reception will I have when we reach Ploumanach? When I arrive, a bastard and unwed, tongues will wag.’

‘I’ll spear the first man who besmirches your honour!’

‘In this world, bastard daughters have no honour,’ Gwenn pointed out gently. ‘Hear me out. I don’t know if my relatives are rich or not. It might be difficult for them when I arrive with Katarin and Philippe both needing support. We’ll be the poor relations, for we’ll have no money. Do you think my kin will greet us with open arms?’

‘They’ll take you in,’ Ned said, sounding less than sure.

‘They’ll take the children in. But me?’ Gwenn shook her head. ‘I’ll be an embarrassment. They’ll want rid of me. Either they’ll compel me to marry some pock-marked merchant I’d have to be grateful to the end of my days,’ she gave a strained laugh, ‘or else they’ll force me into a nunnery, where all unwanted women go. Do you want that for me, Ned?’

Ned stared at her, his heart too full for words.

‘So if you don’t mind, Ned, I’d rather marry you.’

‘You don’t love me.’

She hesitated, and paid him the compliment of admitting to the truth. ‘I like you, very much. I feel more for you than I have for any man. But love... I don’t know what love is. I admit that I’m marrying you to get us out of this hole. I’m marrying you because apart from the children you’re all I’ve got, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you too. Perhaps I’m using you as a prop, I can’t say. But I do like you, Ned. I’m very fond of you, and I trust I will learn to love you.’

‘I’ll care for you, mistress.’

A warm smile lit her eyes. ‘I know. And don’t you think you should start by calling me by my first name?’

‘Gwenn,’ Ned breathed. Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it reverently and pressed his burning cheek to her cool palm.

Chapter Twenty

Alan recognised where he was. The crossroads was a bow-shot ahead, round a curve in the road, which meant that Kermaria was less than two miles away. The long run had improved Firebrand’s temper. Once the courser had worked off his excess energy, he was a delight to ride. It was a beautiful morning with bright sunshine and not too much wind. Alan could smell the sea. Contentedly he trotted along. In his pouch sat a letter sealed with the Duke’s seal authorising him to carry out his survey, but today Alan felt free of his responsibilities. It seemed a long while since he had taken any time for himself, and he was enjoying it. It was good to be away from the court for once, and he was looking forwards to seeing his cousin. He could not be certain that Ned would have stayed at Kemaria, but he thought it likely.

Pleased with himself and the world in general, Alan scanned the hedgerows. They were bursting with life. The sloes were coming into flower, a gnarled old crab-apple had unfurled its leaves, birds were nesting in every branch and bough. Idly, he fell to speculating on what sort of a girl the concubine’s daughter would have grown into.

Alan’s ears caught the sound of frantic hoofs ripping along the Kermaria road. He frowned and drew rein. There were deep ruts in the highway left over from last winter’s mires, and that rider was doing his mount no service. At that speed the animal was likely to trip and break a leg.

Kicking Firebrand’s chestnut flanks, Alan urged him forward in order to have a clear view round the bend. A pretty palfrey thundered towards him. She was riderless.

‘Steady, Firebrand,’ Alan murmured, and holding the Duke’s courser firmly, he waited for the lathered mare to reach him. He caught her trailing bridle easily, and dismounted.

The palfrey rolled her eyes. She was frightened and a white froth of foam dripped from her mouth. ‘What’s happened, girl?’ Alan spoke softly. The horse, a lady’s mount if ever he saw one, carried no saddle and was haltered for her stall, which brought him to the conclusion that she was not being ridden when she was alarmed. He ran his hand over the mare’s quivering withers and felt something sticky. He glanced at his fingers, eyes widening. Blood? Wondering who in his right mind would beat such a gorgeous animal, he bent closer. The mare’s coat was undamaged. The blood was not hers then, but someone else’s. Alan thought aloud. ‘Where have you run from? Kermaria?’

He set his sights on the road which led to St Clair’s manor, and his brows formed a black line above his eyes. What was going on? Taking the palfrey’s reins firmly in one hand, Alan remounted Firebrand. Suspicions aroused, he decided to proceed cautiously. He did not like the look of this.

***

Brother Marzin had his habit rolled up to his elbows. A dumpy young man with a pot of a stomach, he was unused to wielding anything more weighty than a paintbrush, and he was sweating from his exertions. Setting hammer and chisel aside, he wiped his hands on his habit and extended them to help Gwenn through the breach he and Dominig had made in the cell wall. He puffed. To think Dominig had incarcerated them unaided...

‘My thanks.’ Gwenn clambered over the rubble, cradling a bonny baby in the crook of one arm. Her hair was all but loose, her dress was torn, and brambles were hooked onto the hem of her skirts. ‘Please help my sister.’

Brother Marzin eased the silent child over the stones. ‘Relax,’ he said softly. ‘You’re stiff as a board.’ Briefly, the girl’s hazel eyes met his and the look in them sent an icy shiver racing down his spine. No child ought to have eyes like that. They were tired, exhausted eyes; the eyes of an old, embittered woman who had too many sorrows to mourn them all. And under those chilling eyes, charcoal smudges bruised olive skin that was otherwise smooth and unblemished. The girl’s clothing and person, unlike her sister’s, were scarcely disturbed. Brother Marzin was puzzled. Unless one saw those tragic eyes one would assume that she had escaped entirely unscathed from whatever Armageddon had driven them here. He put the child down, and Gwenn’s free arm curled protectively about her shoulders, like a mother hen hiding her chick under her wing.

The soldier was emerging. He did not need assistance. Brother Marzin caught sight of his profile and stared. With the captain’s countenance no longer masked by gloom, this was the first time he had been able to take in the details of his appearance. Stiffening, the monk’s eyes narrowed as his gaze washed over the dust-dimmed fair hair, the square chin, and the widely set blue eyes.

‘Ned?’ He couldn’t believe it. ‘Ned Fletcher?’ The last time Brother Marzin had seen his cousin had been well over four years ago, at Easby, back in England. His playmate had changed. Ned had filled out. He had been a thin, stringy streak of a child but the young man standing in Saint Félix’s chapel was all lean, hard muscle. There were other changes. Ned’s jawline was more pronounced, he carried himself with a deal more pride; nonetheless, he was recognisable as the cousin with whom Marzin had played many a game in their brief childhood.

Stepping into the nave, Ned blinked as his eyes adjusted to the comparative brightness of the church. ‘Brother?’

‘Ned!’ Brother Marzin held out hands that were splotched with paint pigments, and his eyes twinkled. ‘Don’t you recognise me?’

‘I...I know your face, but your name...Marzin?’ Ned gave his head a shake, as though that might prompt a faulty memory.

‘Ned, you’re from my old life. To you, I am William.’

‘William!’ Ned’s face cleared and, striding forwards, he shook him vigorously by the hand. ‘Cousin William! I should have known you at once, if it wasn’t for the soupy murk in there. William!’ The years rolled away, and Ned prodded the novice’s protruding stomach with easy familiarity. ‘You’re exactly the same, except that this has grown. You’re plump as a partridge.’

‘Aye. And you’re taller than ever, Longshanks.’

Ned grinned. ‘Ah, William, you’re a sight for sore eyes, truly you are!’ He turned to Gwenn. ‘Mistress...that is...Gwenn...’ He flushed, it was hard to remember he had the right to call her by her first name. ‘I know this monk.’

‘So I see.’

‘He’s William, my cousin, William le Bret. William, this is Gwenn Herevi. We...we are to be married.’

‘Prior Hubert told me we were having a wedding today,’ William was all smiles, ‘but I’d no notion it was to be yours.’

‘Cousin? William le Bret?’ Gwenn murmured. ‘A relation of Alan le Bret’s?’

‘His brother.’

The resemblance was not clear to Gwenn. The pleasant but unremarkable features of this round, merry novice had none of Alan’s distinctive, chiselled lines, and his manner was humble, not proud.

William’s rotund face had collapsed. ‘Aye, mistress. Do I take it you have the misfortune to be acquainted with my brother?’

‘Indeed. It was no misfortune. Your brother saved my life.’

The novice blinked, apparently startled. ‘Alan saved you? From what? And how much did you have to pay him for that service, pray? A king’s ransom?’ Strange shadows chased across the young monk’s face.

‘I didn’t pay him anything.’

Ned stepped in. ‘William, no. Don’t go raking up old coals.’

William laughed, unhappily. ‘Depend upon it, mistress, Alan would have been after something.’ He saw Gwenn glance at a wrapped bundle Ned had dropped on a pile of masonry. ‘I’ve never known Alan lift a finger to help anyone unless he stood to gain by it.’

Feeling as though she had wandered into a quagmire, Gwenn held her peace.

‘Enough, William, please,’ Ned said. ‘Alan never was the black sheep you would have painted him.’

‘Was he not?’ William shrugged. ‘You always idolised him. You should never have chased after him when he left Richmond.’ He hesitated, and his chubby cheeks reddened. ‘I expect you’ve seen him more recently than I. I’ve not seen him since before he left.’

‘William, I don’t believe you’re as set against Alan as you like to make out. You want to know how he is.’ William scowled. With a gentle smile, Ned put him out of his misery. ‘I last saw Alan roughly two years ago. He’d made it to captain and was off to find work with Duke Geoffrey. He’s a fine soldier. When I was with him, none of our company could best him sword to sword. Your parents would have been proud of him.’

‘My father, Ivon, might,’ William acknowledged gruffly. A Breton sergeant, Ivon le Bret had retired from active soldiering, but he continued to work in the armoury at Richmond Castle in Yorkshire. ‘Mother died the winter Alan ran off. She never was the same after he left.’ The novice waved Ned’s protestations of sympathy aside, and his tone grew sharp. ‘Like you, Mother thought the world of him. I never did understand why she favoured him so. A worthless brawler who considered no one but himself–’

‘William, that’s not true.’

‘Isn’t it? We were happy till he left. Oh, I know Father always thought more of Alan because of his fascination with anything military. And because I was more interested in wielding a pen than a sword, I was overlooked.’ William’s stomach growled. He was on a strict fast since he was due to take his final vows the next day, and it was making him irritable.

‘You’re letting jealousy warp your memories, William,’ Ned said. ‘Ivon is proud to have a son who can read and write. I heard him tell my mother as much.’

William’s nostrils flared. ‘He had a strange way of showing it. It was always Alan he spent time with.’ William looked down at his sandals and wriggled his toes. He shook his head at himself. ‘My apologies, Ned. I don’t often let demons run away with my tongue.’

‘You blame him for your mother’s death. My aunt, William’s mother,’ Ned explained to Gwenn, ‘was a delicate woman. But her death and Alan’s departure from Richmond might have been no more than an unhappy coincidence.’

William straightened his round shoulders. ‘I’m happy Alan achieved his ambitions. Happy to hear that the devil might still be alive. I have often wondered. I did pray for him, despite my anger.’

‘I’m sure you did.’ Ned patted his cousin’s arm, and wondered what hour it was. He felt exhausted. ‘I thought, when you came to the cell window, that you were familiar, but when you informed me your name was Marzin, it put me on the wrong track. Why Marzin?’

William le Bret’s round face lightened, and he indicated his fellow novice. ‘Brother Dominig and I take our vows on the morrow. It’s a custom of this house that new members of the order adopt a new name as a token of our turning our back on our old way of life.’ He threw an enquiring look at Ned. ‘If you think it safe to stay till morning, I’d be glad if you and your lady would consent to witness my profession. We are allowed representatives from the outside world. I had no one coming, but now you are here, I’d be honoured if you’d stay.’

Ned glanced at Gwenn. He could not say whether it was safe to stay or not.

‘I’m very tired, Ned,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps we could sleep here.’

‘We’ll stay,’ Ned decided, ‘but I will keep watch.’

‘No, Ned! You’ll be worn out and not fit to travel.’

William concurred, ‘Your lady is right. You’re not built of iron. I’m fasting, and I have a vigil to keep in here with Dominig; but I can ask one of our brothers to keep watch.’

‘We’ve imposed enough.’

‘Nonsense! You are guests. And we are used to vigils, it is no trial to us monks to watch out for you.’

‘My thanks.’ Ned capitulated with a grin of relief. ‘But I’ll not be able to name you Marzin. You’ll always be William to me. You look well. The monastic life suits you. They can’t fast you too much.’

Ruefully, William put a hand to his extended belly. ‘On the whole, they feed me well. When I explained to the prior that I couldn’t paint on an empty stomach, he was very understanding.’ His stomach growled again and he gave Ned a rueful glance. ‘But because I’m being professed tomorrow, I must fast today. All day.’ Sighing, he looked his cousin over. ‘You look reasonably fit too, Ned, but what happened to your face? Someone should tend to that cut on your arm.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Gwenn said, ‘when I’ve seen to the children.’

William shook his unshorn thatch of hair. ‘You’ve enough taking care of the little ones, mistress. Brother Dominig will show you to the guesthouse. I’ll see to Ned.’

Gwenn thanked him and followed Brother Dominig to the reed-thatched hut which served as guesthouse for the order.

When the cousins were alone, Ned succumbed to the feeling of exhaustion which had been threatening to steal over him for some minutes, and sagged onto a chunk of masonry. ‘What’s the hour, William?’

‘Mid-afternoon.’

‘God’s teeth, is that all? Why is my body telling me its midnight?’

‘You look like death,’ William said frankly. ‘What happened, Ned?’

‘We’ve been through the mill today, old friend.’

‘Mmm?’ Making encouraging noises, William set about peeling aside the rags of what had once been a serviceable tunic from Ned’s left arm. He grimaced. ‘A messy gash,’ he muttered, ‘but not deep. We’d best go to the water butt. I’ve ointments ready.’

Ned dragged himself to his feet. While William bathed and treated his injuries, Ned squatted on an upturned bucket by the water barrel and told his tale. William was pale when he had done.

‘What about the law?’ William asked. ‘Will this enemy of St Clair’s get away with this outrage, this murder?’

‘Count François is the law around Vannes,’ Ned answered dryly. ‘The Duke is only interested in milking his Breton estates of their revenues.’

William let out a low whistle. ‘You’re up against Count François de Roncier? You pick a fine man to cross swords with, Ned.’

‘I know. And I do know the Count, William. Alan and I took our first commission with him, not knowing the man’s true colours. And by the time we had found out, it was too late, for we were sworn to him.’

‘Why didn’t you leave?’ William asked, working at Ned’s shoulder.

‘Leave? You ask me that? We were sworn to the man, William. A sacred oath.’

‘Sacred? Honour amongst thieves, eh? A routier’s oath is sacred, is it?’

Ned frowned. William would never understand. ‘No one would take you on if they heard you broke your word. God may not smile on mercenaries, William, but even mercenaries have some honour.’

‘I wrong you, Ned, I’m sorry. But to kill for pay...’

‘Your bishops have been known to fight in Holy War,’ Ned pointed out.

‘A crusade. That’s different,’ William said stiffly.

‘Is it? Oh hell, William. I’ve never been one for nit-picking. Let’s not argue. All I want is rest. When you’ve finished hacking at my arm, I’d like to go and find Gwenn.’

‘Hacking, you call it?’ William pretended to bridle. ‘I’ll have you know I’m counted the best healer in the monastery.’

‘Then heaven preserve me from the worst!’ Ned said lightly. He winced as William tied a linen bandage in place. ‘My thanks.’ He stood up, and yawned. ‘I’ll be glad when this day is done.’

The twinkle had leapt back into William’s brown eyes. ‘Naturally, for you’ll be a married man by then, won’t you, Ned?’

A crimson tide washed up Ned’s cheekbones to the roots of his hair. ‘I...I wasn’t thinking of that.’

‘Comely maid, I should think, when she’s tidied up a bit?’ William said, an unholy gleam in his eyes.

‘Aye.’

‘She’s your choice?’ The bright colour flooded down Ned’s throat. William chuckled. ‘Your choice. I wish you luck, old friend.’

‘My thanks, we shall need it,’ Ned said, grappling for sanity while he tried to turn a deaf ear on the refrain which had begun piping in his head. One phrase was being repeated over and over again. Tonight, Gwenn Herevi will be your wife. Your wife. Your wife. Your wife.

***

Night was closing in. Prior Hubert had married them after Vespers. The children were asleep in the guesthouse, and Gwenn was preparing for bed.

In constructing their one-roomed guesthouse, the brethren had made use of the forest’s most plentiful resource, wood; and though the cottage was a modest one, it was soundly built. Not only did it have a wooden frame, but it had planked walls in place of the more usual wattle and daub. The monks slept communally, and their dormitory was built on the same lines. There were differences between the two buildings, however. For one thing, the monks’ dormitory was double the size of the cottage; also the interior of the guesthouse was roughly plastered for insulation, as though the monks deemed that their feeble-minded lay visitors needed coddling, while they, bolstered by their faith, did not.

The plaster aside, there were no other refinements. The cottage had been built according to a design that was ages old when the Romans invaded Brittany. The fireplace was nothing more than a ring of stones in the centre of a pounded earth floor. There was no opening in the roof to let out the smoke, so it must rise up and billow in the crossbeams until it wound its way out through the thick reed thatch. Four plain, wooden bed-boxes were ranged round the fire – they occupied almost all the space. The brothers’ guesthouse was simply somewhere travellers could put their heads down and rest.

Ned had collected kindling for a fire which glowed softly in the centre of the room. The door of their lodgings was ajar, in a futile attempt to clear the room of some of the smoke, and Ned leaned thoughtfully on the door frame. He was wearing Sir Jean’s fine woollen cloak which Gwenn had brought with her and given him, together with a bleached linen chainse and fresh tunic that his cousin had dug out of storage.

Gwenn held a reed taper to the tallow candle which Brother Dominig had jammed into a candlestand. The iron stand stood tall as a man, it was eaten with rust and had a crick in its stem so it leaned at a drunken angle. There were no other furnishings. When Gwenn lit the candle, the smelly fat spat and splashed onto one of the mattresses. A moth fluttered through the doorway, and was drawn inevitably to the fire. ‘Ned?’

Ned started. ‘Mistress?’

‘Please shut the door. It’s not getting rid of the smoke, we’ll be plagued with insects, and the draught is making this candle burn unevenly.’ The door closed softly. ‘Ned?’

‘Yes?’ Unbuckling his sword, Ned was wondering which mattress to sleep on. Carefully he placed his sword by the fire, with its guard undone so he could draw it at a moment’s notice. Whichever mattress he slept on, he’d want his sword close to hand. He picked the one nearest the door, lest the alarm bell rang in the night. He could not presume to lie with his wife after all she had suffered this day. It felt peculiar to regard her as his wife.

‘You cannot call me Mistress Gwenn all our married life.’

‘I know.’ Ned smiled at her across the flames, thinking how pretty she was in the fireglow. The shadows masked the strain on her face, and the kindly light lent a faint flush to her pale cheeks. His wife. ‘But habits cannot be changed overnight. Your father was insistent I kept my distance.’ He broke off, cringing at his appalling tactlessness. ‘Gwenn, forgive me, I did not mean to remind you...’

Her lips curved sadly. ‘I don’t need you to remind me, Ned. My father’s last moments are ever in my mind. You do not wound me.’ She sank down onto one of the mattresses. Ned stood by awkwardly, uncertain of his new role.

‘At least the mattresses are dry,’ she said.

Ned poked one with his foot. It rustled. ‘Straw?’

‘Either that or dried bracken. Lumpier than our old ones.’ Abruptly, Gwenn ducked her head and began fumbling with her braids, but Ned had seen the sudden sheen in her eyes, and knew it indicated tears. Before he’d given it conscious thought, he found himself on his haunches at her side, hands on her shoulders.

‘Gwenn, don’t check your tears. Cry. It might ease the pain.’

Her eyes met his, dark and watery, but she shook her head. ‘I...I mustn’t. What if the children wake? If they saw me weeping, it would upset them even more.’ She curled her fingers into fists, and her voice wobbled. ‘I feel as though I’m in a dream. None of this seems real. I need to think, only there are so many worries eating away at me I don’t know which to tackle first. Help me, Ned. Help me to think. I’m worried to death.’

Gwenn’s appeal having neatly defined his role, Ned knew where he was. In a companionable manner, he settled himself at her side, put an arm about her shoulders, and hugged her to him. The most difficult part for him would be trying to put out of his mind how much he desired her. That insidious chanting began in his mind. She is your wife. Your wife.

‘I’ve funds, you know,’ Ned was determined to ignore the insistent chorus, ‘so if that’s a concern, dismiss it. Your uncle gave me this. It’s yours. Give me your hand.’ He dropped Waldin St Clair’s purse into her palm.

‘Waldin gave you this? Sweet Mother, it’s heavy.’ Gwenn untied the strings and gaped at an astonishing hoard which included small pennies from the Breton mints of Rennes and Nantes, some of the more valuable English silver pennies, deniers from Tours, and even gold bezants from the distant Byzantine capital of Constantinople. ‘Waldin carried all this on his person?’

‘Aye. It’s the prize money of a champion. When Sir Waldin described the tournaments to me, he told me he reckoned it safer on his person than hidden elsewhere. He liked to know where it was. He threw it at me in the heat of the battle.’

‘Guard it for me. It could see us to Jerusalem if need be.’ Gwenn glanced at the bundle which contained her grandmother’s statue. She might not have to sell the gemstone at once. ‘Ned?’

‘Mmm?’ Gazing resolutely at the fire, Ned’s response was muffled. She is your wife. She is...

‘You could have run off with it,’ Gwenn said in a low voice. ‘You could have left us, and run off with a fortune.’

‘And leave you to face de Roncier alone? How could you say such a thing?’

The hurt in Ned’s eyes tugged at Gwenn’s heartstrings, and apologetically she lifted her fingers to touch his cheek. Her fingers lingered.

Ned held himself steady as a rock. He had to force himself to keep his eyes open, while concealing his feelings from her. He was certain she’d be frightened by them; the force of them frightened even him. He swallowed. Her fingers shifted, went to his hair. She was feeling the texture of it, stroking it, eyes shy, not driven by great emotion, he was well aware of that, but quietly, trustfully exploring. An ache started deep in Ned’s belly. His breath was coming unevenly. He strove to moderate it.

‘I count myself lucky to have so loyal a husband, Ned,’ Gwenn said, unmindful of the disordering effect she was having on Ned’s senses. Not for one moment did I doubt you. You’re a man in a thousand.’

‘Gwenn,’ Ned blurted, and could have cursed, for her hand fell away, ‘I wish I had a ring for you.’

‘I need no ring to remind me to keep faith with you. I’ve sworn to keep myself for you, and I’ll honour my vows.’

Ned’s arm tightened, and he looked at Gwenn’s mouth.

On her mattress three feet away, Katarin mumbled in her sleep. Gwenn’s expression changed. ‘Katarin’s one of my main worries,’ she said. ‘She’s not uttered a word since we left Kermaria.’

‘What?’

‘Katarin won’t talk. I can’t get a word out of her.’

‘She said something then.’

‘In her sleep.’ Gwenn got up and went to her sister’s palliasse. She tenderly stroked a strand of hair from the little girl’s face. ‘When she’s awake, I can’t squeeze a word out of her.’

‘She,’ Ned hesitated, ‘she wasn’t struck in the fight?’

‘No, she was with me all the time. No one laid a finger on her.’ Katarin muttered and threw off her covering. Gwenn replaced it. ‘I can’t understand it.’

Leaning on his elbow, Ned asked, ‘What’s she saying?’

‘I can’t make it out. She’s gabbling. Do you think she’s all right?’

‘If she can talk in her sleep, there can’t be much wrong. She will be in shock, I should think. Give her a day or two to come round. Soon she’ll be chattering away like a starling, and you’ll be wishing her silent for a space.’

‘I hope so. Oh, Ned. It is good to have you to talk to. I’d be in a terrible state, if I didn’t have you.’

‘The infant, is he alright?’

Gwenn nodded, and came back to Ned. She kicked off her short kid boots. ‘Philippe has the constitution of an ox. He doesn’t seem to have noticed anything’s amiss. He yells when he’s angry or when he’s hungry, but he’s soon soothed. He’s an amazing child. If we can but get him away from here...’

‘We will.’

Gwenn stood looking down at her husband. Dear Ned. He had been her only real friend for two years, and suddenly she found herself married to him. It was not easy to believe, but then nothing that had happened that day had been easy to believe. Her mind was too strained to think about the other, unacceptable events, it was best if she kept it fixed on her husband.

Ned smiled, took one of her hands and tugged. Gwenn’s knees bent. Their eyes met and Gwenn saw the flush on his cheeks. She lacked sexual experience, but she knew that the colour on his cheeks was not entirely due to the fire. Ned desired her.

‘Gwenn,’ Ned cleared his throat, but his voice remained husky, ‘if it would help you to talk about your father...’

‘Later, perhaps, not now.’

‘Where do you want to sleep?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ll sleep with you, husband.’

Ned released his breath on a rush, pulled off his boots, and opened his arms. Gwenn went into them as eagerly as a pigeon coming home to roost after battling through a tempest. The heat of Ned’s body was comforting, and at first she was content to be held, but every time she lowered her eyelids, images crowded in on her, violent, grisly, bloody images, that made her eyes flick open and chased sleep away. She felt dislocated, out of herself, and if it wasn’t for the feel of Ned’s cradling arms, and the comforting smell of his body... She closed her eyes and burrowed deeper into his arms. A likeness of her father, lying in a dark pool on the rushes, flickered through her mind’s eye. She shook it away and wound her arm tight about Ned’s waist. A heartbeat later, she felt the reassuring touch of Ned’s hand on her hair. She tried to relax, and closed her eyes once more.

The fire burned down till it was only a dull cluster of stars winking gently in the centre of the floor. The candle hissed and guttered. Time crawled by, and neither of them slept.

Ned was tussling with an altogether different vision, but it disturbed his rest as much as Gwenn’s memories disturbed hers. He was imagining that Gwenn and he were naked. They lay pressed together, mouth on mouth. She loved him, and his hand was running down her smooth white skin from shoulder to thigh...

‘Gwenn?’ Ned whispered, unaware that the sound of his voice had banished yet another in a long line of ghastly horrors which were all Gwenn’s battered mind seemed capable of producing. She raised her head from his chest, and her loose braids tickled his neck. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

‘No. My mind’s going round like a wheel on a cart.’

Rosemary, Ned could smell rosemary. His hand moved down Gwenn’s cheek and came to rest on the small pulse in her neck. He could see it beating, and slid his thumb across it in a delicate caress.