Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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‘No commitment?’

‘None.’ She heard him swallow.

‘And you swear you are safe? I don’t want to think I’m leaving you behind with my babe in your belly.’

The girl’s mouth curved, she was almost certain she was going to have her way. ‘By St Ivy–’

‘Very well.’ A smile lightened the soldier’s dark features, and his forefinger ran softly across her prominent cheekbones. ‘Where do we go?’

‘To the bridge. I sleep under it.’

‘The bridge. Of course.’

***

The beggar-girl’s assessment that her benefactor would take his pleasure slow and easy had been correct, and only when he had satisfied himself that she was enjoying it too had he let himself go and fallen with a convulsive sigh onto her breast. She stroked his thick hair, more relaxed and content than she had been for a year. Playfully, she nibbled his earlobe. He murmured and shifted, lifting his head so he blotted out the stars. ‘No more,’ he said, with gentle but unyielding firmness.

‘No more?’ She did not want to believe him. He had been considerate, and she was hungry for more of the same. She ran a teasing hand down his back and repeated huskily, ‘No more?’

Alan felt wretched. Making love with this girl had not succeeded in stopping him thinking about Gwenn. He was in a miserable state of mind, and it was not one he would be in if he hadn’t decided to do his cousin a good turn, and see his family safe to Ploumanach. It is always good deeds, he reflected sourly, that get you into trouble. He eased himself away from his companion and sat up. ‘No more. I have to go.’

‘Daylight’s hours away.’

‘I have to go.’ There was an ache in his belly, and activity would dissipate it. He reached for his hose and began dressing.

The beggar-girl watched the man who a few moments ago had been as considerate a lover as she could have wished for, and a dreadful feeling of inevitability fell over her. ‘You hate me,’ she murmured, sadly. He was in a hurry, already he was clothed.

Alan glanced uneasily at the girl lying on her pillow of ferns. ‘I don’t hate you. It’s me I hate.’ He considered giving her more money, but did not wish to insult her. Instead he took her head between his hands and pressed his lips to her pale cheeks. ‘Fare you well.’

‘St Julian watch over you,’ came the whispered response.

Firebrand was tethered to an overhanging alder. Unhooking the reins, Alan led the Duke’s courser onto Pontivy’s main thoroughfare. He walked as the far as the inn and, finding the shutters closed for the night, hammered until the landlord appeared.

‘What is it?’ Scrubbing sleep from his face, and none too pleased at being roused from his bed, the landlord scowled.

‘I want a word about the girl.’

‘What girl? We’re closed. I gave you your wine.’

‘I know that. But I’d like to ask you a favour.’

The landlord’s scowl deepened and he did not reply. Favours usually cost money.

‘That girl I was with.’ Alan didn’t know her name, hadn’t wanted to know it.

‘The beggar-maid?’

‘That’s the one.’ Alan took a couple of coins from his pouch and juggled them in his palm. ‘I was hoping that you might see your way to employing her.’

‘God’s wounds! This is a reputable hostelry, I can’t be employing poxy drabs.’

‘I think she would work hard if you gave her the chance.’

The innkeeper swore. ‘No. It’s more likely she’d scare off my trade. Have you seen the state of her skin? She looks as though she’s infected with the plague.’

Alan smiled crookedly. ‘I think if you employed her, you’d find her cured of that affliction.’ He held out his palm, and the innkeeper’s eyes did not shift from the coins.

‘You’re leaving the area?’

‘Aye.’

‘What’s to stop me taking your money and not giving her work?’

Alan remembered the well-regimented inn, the neat lines of hams, the orderly onions, and the landlord’s dazzling linen apron. He grinned. ‘Nothing. I’m taking the chance that you’re not a man to sweep things into the rushes. I shall trust to your honesty, landlord.’

The innkeeper’s fingers closed round the money. ‘I’ll try her out,’ he agreed, reluctantly. ‘But I give you notice, if I find her dishonest, I’ll throw her back into the midden.’

‘My thanks, landlord.’

It was rare for Alan to be moved to compassion, and it unsettled and disturbed him, but he could not have stalked off and dismissed that girl from his mind as once he might have done. He grimaced ruefully into the rustling night, conscious of a wave of regret at leaving her. Time was when he would not have spared her a moment’s thought, but something had opened his eyes to her plight. It would have been easier if his eyes had remained closed. It would have been far simpler to ride off and forget her.

Alan had another leave-taking preying on his mind. He was becoming as strongly attracted to Gwenn as his cousin was, and he would shortly have to say farewell to her. If he felt like this over a girl he’d only known for one evening, how was he going to react when he parted from Gwenn? Briefly, he considered confessing his feelings to her, but he could not see what that would achieve. He could not bring himself to come between Ned and Gwenn, he had seen how they cared for each other, and even if his feelings were reciprocated, did he want to make an adulteress of Gwenn?

Fiercely, Alan dug in his heels and Firebrand surged through the waving bracken. At least he was happier with himself having spoken to the landlord about the beggar-girl. It was best she remained nameless. Weren’t beggars always nameless? Perhaps next time he passed this way he would visit the inn and see if she was there. Perhaps he might learn her name, next time.

***

Conan had stowed away among a merchant’s bales of cloth in a trading vessel bound for the northern port of Lannion. Lannion was half a day’s walk from Ploumanach. Conan had tried to shake off the white mongrel, intending to abandon it on the quayside, but the animal had clung like a tick, and in the end Conan had taken it with him. If the dog threatened to give tongue and betray him, he could always slit its throat. But the animal had learned that it paid to be silent, and while the merchantman skimmed over the waves, the cur kept a cowed silence.

In Lannion, a fortuitous chance in La Rue des Templiers had a donkey shedding its burden at the bottom of the hill. While the load was set to rights, the way was blocked to the church at the top, and in the muddle Conan cut the strings of the cloth merchant’s elaborately tooled leather purse. As a result, he was in possession of enough minted silver to bide his time, and pick his moment.

He reached Ploumanach two days before Alan’s party, hiring lodgings in a fisherman’s cottage in one of the many fishing hamlets that had grown up in the surrounding inlets. While he and the dog waited, he set his mind to pondering on how he could get his hands on Gwenn Herevi’s Virgin. His mind, undirected by any but himself for the first time in a decade, moved slowly.

***

The last leg of their journey to Ploumanach was without mishap, and Gwenn and her companions rode into the main village at sunset on a balmy evening. There was hardly a breath of wind in the air.

Alan and Ned had been talking tournaments for the last hour, and though Gwenn had paid attention at first, she had wearied of the topic and chose instead to take an interest in the changing countryside. Clumps of gorse flamed yellow in the evening light. Slender white ribbons of cloud trailed across a fading blue sky. The trees had thinned out some miles back, and though a few oaks grew here, by comparison with their proud brothers in the forest, these were stunted and twisted. There were tall pines though, and as they drew nearer the coast, stunted oaks yielded to sprawling banks of bramble. The scent of pine lingered in the air, and in the distance, breaking up the skyline, the spiky trees formed a dark traceried screen for the evening light to glow through.

A seagull arrowed over their heads. They must be close to their destination. Gwenn dragged her attention from the terrain and homed in on the cousins’ discussion.

‘If you find you can’t settle here, Ned,’ Alan was saying, ‘you could come to King Philip’s August Tournament. My Duke plans to go, and I shall be accompanying him. There are bound to be opportunities for a young man like yourself. You would love it.’

Philippe was asleep in Gwenn’s lap, a contented little cherub, totally unaware of the dramatic train of events that had led to him being dragged to the other side of Brittany. What did the future hold for him? What did the future hold for any of them? Glancing at her husband, Gwenn felt a warm upsurge of emotion for him. Her future was with Ned. Holding her brother firmly, Gwenn steered Dancer towards him so they were riding with their arms just touching. Ned reached over and gave a plait a friendly tug. Smiling impishly at him, Gwenn faked a yawn. ‘You’re not still droning on about tourneys, are you? I should have thought you would have talked them to death.’

‘Sorry, my sweet.’ Ned’s expression was wistful. ‘They fascinate me. I would love to go to one.’

Gwenn bit her lip, recalling with a pang the times she had seen him hanging on her uncle’s words as though they were his meat and drink. ‘You could go, Ned. I see nothing to prevent you.’

Warm blue eyes met hers. Ned was trying, and failing, to hide his eagerness. ‘But there’s you and the children. I have to consider you.’

‘Poor Ned,’ Alan teased, ‘shackled to a wife and children at your tender age.’

Suddenly uncomfortable so close to Ned, Gwenn threw Alan a black look. ‘Alan,’ she urged Dancer level with Firebrand’s glossy flanks, ‘I’ll have you know it won’t be me who keeps Ned from attending the King’s Joust.’

Alan bowed his head. ‘Very gracious of you, my lady.’ He rolled audacious eyes at Ned, whose mule was dragging its heels. ‘There you are, what more do you want? You have your wife’s permission to go to King Philip’s tournament.’

The irony in Alan’s voice was wasted on Ned, busy belabouring his mule, but not on Gwenn. It was a rare man who heeded his wife’s wishes when they conflicted with his own. A wife was a chattel. Gwenn was lucky with her Ned, he did not view her in that light. How did Alan le Bret view her? As a chattel of his cousin’s?

‘I’ll look for you in August, Ned,’ Alan said, and then he grinned at Gwenn, and she could not divine what he thought.

Lagging farther behind, Ned’s eyes shone with dreamy longing, but he refused to commit himself. ‘I’ll see.’

‘Ned the noble,’ Alan muttered, for Gwenn’s ears alone.

Gwenn’s eyes narrowed, for Alan had sounded almost savage. ‘I’m blessed to have him,’ she said, and braced herself for sarcasm.

But astonishingly, Alan did not mock her, he simply locked his cool gaze with hers, and said with quiet emphasis, ‘I know. He protects you from more than de Roncier.’

Unable at first to puzzle that one out, Gwenn was startled when Alan’s eyes dropped to her mouth. She found herself looking at his, admiring the firm, clean curve of his upper lip, and the generous, sinful curve of the bottom one. When she had finished she realised that he was watching her and she understood what he had meant. Feeling like a guilty child who had been caught stealing a sweetmeat without asking, she jerked her gaze away from him, and made a show of seeing to the baby dozing in the cradle of her arm. Then she pinned her eyes on the sandy road which was dyed sunset pink.

She did not look at Alan again. This was a complication she could do without. For a second, she had caught herself thinking that she would like to kiss him. She had wanted to see if he tasted the same as he did two years ago. She must drive out such sinful thoughts. She had a husband for whom she felt a great affection, and she did not want to be drawn to Alan. Alan was not capable of loving in the way that Ned was – lust was what Alan le Bret was about. She had needed Alan to see the children safely to Ploumanach. For everyone’s sake, the sooner he returned to his Duke now the job was done, the better.

They were entering a village. In one of the doorways sat an elderly matron, a spindle and distaff idle at her elbow while she warmed a wind-burned face in the gentle rays of the waning sun. With a lingering look at Gwenn, which she ignored, Alan enquired the way of the woman.

The matron cupped a hand to her ear. ‘You want Sir Gregor?’ The aged voice was worn, and rusty as a rook’s.

‘Aye. Which way?’

A trembling talon pointed down the sand-strewn road which divided two rows of long, low cottages. Like a sponge, the street had soaked up the pink twilight – the whitewashed cottages were glowing as rosily as the sky. ‘Down there,’ the old woman rasped. ‘And when you reach the bay, skirt along the left hand path past Saint Guirec’s shrine. You can’t miss it. Sir Gregor’s holding is built on the rocks on the peninsular.’

‘My thanks.’ Alan clapped his spurs to his horse’s sides.

Gwenn kept pace, but she avoided his eyes.

‘We’re nearly there,’ he said, giving her a pensive look. ‘I’ll wager you’re glad to have made it before nightfall. You won’t want another night in the open.’

‘No.’ Now they had actually arrived, Gwenn was nervous. Her throat was dry, and swallowing did not ease it. Up until this moment, her mind had been focused on getting her brother to Ploumanach alive. It had taxed her to keep going. She had not had the strength to think any farther ahead than where they would be sleeping that night, and whether they were being followed by de Roncier’s men and might be slaughtered in their sleep. She had not allowed herself the luxury of considering what sort of a reception she and her family might receive from her kin – her very distant kin.

What was Sir Gregor like? Was he married? Would he welcome an entire family turning up like beggars on his doorstep, with little more than the rags on their backs? Craning her neck to watch Ned and Katarin, Gwenn glanced briefly at her husband’s saddlebags. Ned had managed to save the greater portion of Waldin’s money, and they had the gemstone, of course. She could use that to sweeten Sir Gregor if he looked disinclined to offer them aid.

She and Alan rode past the last of the cottages in silence. Their mounts’ hoofs raised swirling pink clouds in the dusting of sand on the path, and the irregular clopping matched the pulse of Gwenn’s heart. She could hear the sea now, another, more rhythmical beat, as waves broke gently on an unseen beach. They must come to it at any moment.

A brace of seagulls shot past them, dazzling flashes of pure, white light, and a small bay opened out before them. It was entirely bathed in the warm, flaring beauty of the dying sun. It was a sight that was balm to the most wounded of souls, and for a few blissful moments Gwenn forgot her troubles and could only gaze in delight. The setting sun rested on the edge of the world. The colours of a ripe peach, it had tinted the western sky. The sea was gold, and the sand and rocks were washed with the most subtle, sunset pink.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Gwenn murmured. Hearing Alan sigh, she glanced across at him. He was not looking at the bay, his eyes were fixed on a modest stone structure which could only be the shrine the fisherman’s widow had mentioned.

Alan’s chest ached. ‘I’ll miss you, my little sparring partner,’ he said, so softly that his voice was almost lost in the gentle hushing of the sea. Ned had yet to breast the gorse bushes which fringed the beach.

‘Miss me?’ That she had not expected, though she knew she would miss him.

‘If...’ Alan did not shift his eyes from the shrine, and Gwenn noted his skin had darkened as though he were hiding some emotion, possibly embarrassment. ‘If anything ever happens to Ned, my Blanche, I want you to promise to call on me.’

Astounded by Alan’s discomfiture, and by his unexpected offer of assistance, Gwenn stared at him for some seconds before she realised that her mouth hung open. Could it be that Alan actually cared? No, this was Alan le Bret, the Duke’s cold captain... She snapped her mouth shut. ‘Call on you? But I have relatives here.’

‘They may not be,’ Alan paused and turned to face her, giving her an inscrutable look which brought her out in goosebumps, ‘to your liking, and as Ned’s cousin I am a relative of sorts.’ The look faded and was replaced with a stiff smile.

He was embarrassed.

‘Will you promise, Gwenn? I’ll be leaving in the morning.’

‘But why should anything happen to Ned? Have you stumbled across something you’re not telling us?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ Alan said hastily, and shrugged, as though his offer was of no account. ‘I merely wanted you to know you could turn to me, if you need me.’

‘Thank you, Alan. I will remember.’

‘I am,’ Alan’s mouth went up at the edges and as Ned rounded the corner, he gave Gwenn one of the mocking little bows which had become endearingly familiar, ‘eternally your obedient servant, mistress.’

‘My thanks, kind sir,’ Gwenn replied in the same light tone. ‘Where would I find you?’

‘Ask for Duke Geoffrey.’ He gave her one last, sinful smile and heeled Firebrand, urging him across glowing pink sands to St Guirec’s shrine. The ache in his chest was not gone, but it had diminished.

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘And so, Sir Gregor, that is our tale,’ Gwenn finished, and spread her hands in the universal gesture of supplication. The interview she had dreaded ever since leaving Kermaria was proving to be as unpalatable as she had imagined. She loathed having to beg. If it was not for the innocents – poor, silent Katarin and dispossessed Philippe...

She gritted her teeth and pressed on. ‘I know that we are only distantly related, but I implore you to have pity on us and take us in. If you don’t, Lord knows what will become of the children. I am not penniless, but I cannot provide my brother and sister with the security they need.’

She alone of her party had been ushered into the solar, a fine, tall chamber with soaring beams which married in the lofty apex of a steeply slanted roof. She was standing in front of a high, wood-panelled window seat. The window with its four narrow lights overlooked the ocean, a crow’s nest of a window, for Sir Gregor’s manor was built on a spit of land jutting into the sea. Its shutters were open to admit the pink afterglow of the sinking sun. Two steps led from the solar floor to the window seat, which had been made welcoming by two gorgeous silk cushions, upon which some wizard with a needle had emblazoned the most exquisite satin flowers. Ensconced on these cushions, opposite each other, sat Sir Gregor Wymark and his wife. As the apricot rays from the sunset spilled into the solar, they drew saintly haloes round the heads of the knight and his lady. Because of the light, Gwenn was unable to make out either her relatives’ features or whether they regarded her with any sympathy or not.

Sir Gregor and Lady Wymark’s solar was unlike any she had ever seen. Its walls were lined with richly coloured hangings. At the house in Vannes, Raymond had once recounted the Romance of Tristan to her, and Gwenn imagined King Mark’s pavilion would resemble Lady Wymark’s solar: all silk and satin and bright shimmery colours, with not a sharp corner in sight. It was hot too, for though a breeze floated gently through the seaward window and twitched the billowing wall-hangings, the fire was piled high with blazing logs and the heavy scent of burning pine filled the room.

After the hardships and uncertainties of the flight from Kermaria, this solar seemed like heaven. The children would be safe in this womb of a place, for Lady Wymark had to be like her solar – warm and welcoming.

Gwenn’s eyes could not linger on the furnishings, however exotic. She was waiting with bated breath for her relatives to reveal their hearts as well as their faces. She clasped her hands tightly to quell an almost irrepressible desire to play with her girdle.

‘You poor child!’ Lady Wymark murmured half rising from her seat, but a sharp, chopping movement of her husband’s blunt hand had her sinking back to her place.

‘You claim to be Izabel de Wirce’s grandchild?’ Sir Gregor asked. He had a deep, gravelly voice.

‘Aye, sir,’ hope warmed Gwenn’s breast, ‘but when my grandmother married, her name became Herevi.’

The knight scratched an ear. ‘Herevi...can’t place it. Don’t think I’ve heard that name before.’

‘No, sir. There’s no reason you should. Gwionn Herevi was only a squire when he married Grandmama.’ There was a few moments’ uncomfortable silence, enough to crush the faint hope which had stirred briefly in her breast.

‘A squire?’ Sir Gregor echoed, and though Gwenn did not know him, she could not miss the disbelief in his tone. ‘You’re telling me that Izabel de Wirce married a squire?’

Lady Wymark leaned forward, plump fingers twisting the hem of her veil. ‘That is true, my love. I recall my mother telling me that story. I believe there was quite a scandal at the time. Why–’

‘Peace, wife,’ Sir Gregor rumbled, waving for silence. Gwenn was beginning to feel as though she were a plaintiff in court. She was on trial. ‘And you maintain you are Izabel’s grandchild?’

‘I am.’

‘Can you prove it?’

‘P..prove it? Why, I...I don’t know. I have nothing in writing, sir.’

Sir Gregor swung stiffly down from his perch and walked round her, and Gwenn had her first clear sight of him. He was squat, and strong-thewed, a wall of a man a yard broad. He had the build of someone who relished exercise. Most of his might lay in his shoulders and arms, and it looked a solid, immovable kind of strength, with no give in it at all. Sir Gregor was in his early fifties. He had thinning grey hair, and a certain inflexibility in his gait warned of incipient rheumatism. Hairy eyebrows drooped over mud-coloured eyes, and though at the moment he was eyeing Gwenn narrowly, Sir Gregor’s eyes were deeply set in a face criss-crossed with laughter lines. He was not, Gwenn sensed, a harsh man, but his grating voice and that stolid toughness made him the type of man about whom she would think twice before crossing.

‘My...my travelling companions will vouch for me,’ she stammered.

‘And who might they be that I should give them ear? A couple of mercenaries, and one of them, by your own admission, has married you. You wear no ring. You could be a group of travelling players out for an easy living for all I know. You’ll have to do better than that.’

Gwenn was bone weary. Gazing straight ahead of her, she kept her head high and sucked in some air, and with it, hopefully, some endurance. ‘As I explained, there was no opportunity to buy a ring.’ She met the knight’s eyes boldly. ‘Sir, if you’re not going to help us, please say so. I’ll take my leave and not trouble you further. As I said, I have money. Look.’ She drew out Waldin’s purse which, foreseeing this very objection, she had taken from Ned. She tore it open, grabbed Sir Gregor’s hand, and poured a cascade of coins into the wide palm. ‘Take it. Take it all, sir, and put it towards the cost of our upkeep.’

Giving the money no more than a glance, Sir Gregor said, gruffly, ‘You could use this to bring up your brother and sister yourself.’

‘Aye. But I couldn’t guarantee my brother’s safety in the same way that you could if you took us in. I have no way of knowing the Count’s plans. I have been honest with you, sir. There may be danger in taking my brother in.’

‘Has this de Roncier had you followed here?’ the deep-timbred voice asked.

‘I don’t know. We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him since leaving the monastery, but I cannot swear he’s forgotten us. He’s Herod reborn, and we might be bringing danger to your gates; but you have this fortified manor, and your men, and I could not provide all that.’

Lady Wymark stood up. She was short, with a full figure. ‘I believe she is telling the truth, Gregor,’ she said. ‘I believe we should let her stay. Poor lamb.’

‘Wait, Alis, you are always a mite hasty in your judgements.’ The knight tipped Waldin’s money into the wallet. ‘Is there no way you can prove you are Gwenn Herevi?’

‘Gwenn Fletcher. I am married to my father’s Captain of the Guard.’

‘Poor child.’ Lady Alis gave an expressive shudder. ‘Forced to marry a mercenary!’

‘No, my lady,’ Gwenn said, firmly. ‘You mistake the matter. I was not forced. Ned is a good man.’

Lady Alis could not have heard for she continued shaking her head. ‘Poor child. A mercenary!’

Sighing, Gwenn caught Sir Gregor’s muddy eyes on her. They were not unsympathetic. She turned to the table where she had placed her bundle and unwrapped the Stone Rose. ‘Sir, I am able to offer you more, if the money is not enough.’ As she folded back the linen and lifted the Virgin out, she heard Sir Gregor’s sharply indrawn breath. ‘Sir?’

‘Hand that over,’ the crusty voice ordered.

The statue shrank in his sinewy hands. After a lengthy examination, Sir Gregor lifted his head. ‘This stone is local to these parts,’ he said.

With a rustle of voluminous skirts, Lady Wymark approached her husband, and her plump, beringed fingers caressed the child sleeping in the Virgin’s arms. ‘I believe you’re right, Gregor,’ she said, stooping shortsightedly over the holy infant. She had brooding blue eyes, and when she bent her head, a double chin that her wimple could not contain. Wisps of light-brown hair escaped confinement, and baby-fine curls framed her face. Where her husband was solid and immovable, she was all softness and give. ‘There are rocks like this scattered all over the peninsular.’

‘To whom does this statue belong?’ the knight asked.

‘It was my grandmother’s.’

‘It was Izabel’s!’ Lady Wymark cried, dimpling sunnily at Gwenn. ‘Gregor, if this icon belonged to Izabel de Wirce, then you have the proof you need. This girl is whom she claims.’

‘Quiet, woman!’ Sir Gregor growled. The untidy brows twitched upwards. ‘Was this Izabel’s, Mistress Gwenn?’

‘Aye, sir. I understand it was her mother’s before that.’

The knight’s face crumpled into a smile that was as warm as his wife’s. ‘It would appear, Gwenn, my dear, that you have brought your proof with you. Welcome to Ploumanach.’

Overwhelmed with relief, though far from understanding what had brought about this sudden volte-face, Gwenn felt the tears rise. Lady Alis opened her arms and enveloped her in a perfumed embrace.

The knight’s grating voice penetrated the swathes of scented linen. ‘It was your great-grandmother, my dear, who was a Wymark,’ he said.

‘Izabel’s mother?’ Gwenn emerged from his wife’s stifling hug.

‘Aye, Andaine Wymark. She was sent south to marry into the de Wirce family, a sound, political marriage, but it’s possible she had no wish to leave Ploumanach, for she had this statue carved out of the local granite as a keepsake.’

‘It is very beautiful here,’ Lady Wymark said. ‘I can see why she might not have wanted to leave. I wouldn’t want to leave, and I wasn’t born here. It must have been very hard for your ancestor to be torn from her roots and sent south.’

‘Enough, Alis. Curb your tongue, will you?’ Sir Gregor said in his harsh voice, but Gwenn suspected that his harshness masked a deep and abiding affection for his wife. Sir Gregor went on, ‘You have seen the rocks outside, my dear?’

‘R...rocks?’

His smile enlarged, and the wrinkles radiated from his eyes till his ruddy, sun-browned face came to resemble a withered pear taken out of winter storage. ‘Aye. You can’t miss them, gigantic boulders which God dropped on these northern shores when He created the world. The whole place is coloured by them, even the sand on the beach – all like your statue, all salmon pink.’

‘Salmon pink? But, Sir Gregor, I thought...’ Gwenn knotted her brows. ‘Do you mean that it wasn’t the sunset that drenched the rocks with colour? Are you telling me that everything here is this colour naturally?’ She indicated the Stone Rose which was, as Sir Gregor had said, that same rosy hue.

‘Wait till tomorrow,’ Lady Wymark said. ‘You’ll see then.’

‘You’ll permit us to stay?’

Lady Wymark glanced longingly at her husband, and on receiving a confirmatory nod, she said, ‘You and the children must stay.’

Gwenn sagged with relief. ‘My thanks. I can’t tell you how much this means. You won’t regret it, I’ll see to that. I can sew, and make medicines, and help with the household. I’m not afraid of hard work, and Ned is a good soldier.’ At mention of Ned, Lady Wymark frowned, but Gwenn was so content to have found a haven for Katarin and Philippe that she did not notice. ‘Shall I bring the children up, Lady Wymark, that you may meet them?’

The good lady beamed. ‘Please do. I’m longing to meet the children,’ she said, with strange emphasis which again Gwenn missed. ‘We’ve not been blessed with children of our own. Bring them up. I suspect you’d like a bath before we eat?’

‘A bath?’ Gwenn echoed, with a longing she could not hide. ‘Oh, could we, my lady?’

Lady Wymark smiled. ‘I’ll have the tubs filled. And, Gwenn, dear? Call me Aunt Alis, will you?’

Gwenn smiled back. ‘Of course...Aunt Alis.’

With a light step, Gwenn ran down the turning stairs to fetch her siblings. It had not been necessary to offer her relatives the gemstone, and while she would not have begrudged parting with it if it bought safety for Katarin and Philippe, she was glad the Stone Rose still housed its secret treasure.

***

Having seen Gwenn and the children accepted by Sir Gregor and Lady Wymark, Alan put his personal feelings aside and confirmed his intention of leaving at daybreak the following morning. He found it more difficult than he had anticipated.

Initially, his host and hostess had been frosty in their manner towards Ned and himself, and Alan had deemed it politic to let fall that he was high in the service of the Duke of Brittany, and was expected by the Duke at Rennes. Thereafter, Sir Gregor and Lady Wymark had thawed, and Alan had been prettily thanked for his assistance. He had been well fed, and comfortably housed on a pallet in the hall, as was the custom. And Ned had received similar treatment, although by rights he should have been allocated a place in what served as married quarters.