Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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Alis’s gaze was drawn to the group by the shoreline. She straightened her shoulders and smiled, bringing dimples to either side of her mouth. ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ she said, and Gwenn knew by her tone that she had won. They could stay, all of them. She would not have to abandon the children and Ned would be accepted.

‘Will it be so hard, Aunt, to think the better of my husband?’ she asked, sadly.

‘I...I... No, of course not.’ Alis put a brave face on it. She may have been forced to bow to Gwenn’s will, but she would try and like the mercenary who had married her niece. How else could she keep the children?

‘It’s not such a bad marriage, Aunt, when you look at it dispassionately.’

‘You could have had a knight, or a merchant,’ Alis said wistfully.

‘Aunt, you’re forgetting, I’m not legitimate. I am only a bast–’

‘Hush, Gwenn!’ Alis flung a shocked glance in the direction of the children. ‘Katarin might hear you.’

‘Oh, Aunt Alis,’ Gwenn said, thanking God that her aunt had been blessed with a heart of gold, for she had a narrow bigot’s mind, and it was her only warm heart that redeemed her. ‘Katarin is a bastard too, and one day she is bound to discover it.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ Alis said, stoutly.

Gwenn bit her tongue and held down a sigh. To her mind such matters were best out in the open, but she did not think it was prudent to air that particular view today. She would have to proceed one step at a time. Today, she had made a stride, and she would save other strides for other days. ‘Aunt?’

‘Aye?’ The smile Alis bent on Gwenn bore no trace of ill will. Not only was her aunt blessed with a loving heart, she had a generous nature too. Truly they had come to the right place.

‘You will make arrangements for Ned and me to be housed together?’

‘Everything shall be as you wish it, my dear. Your Ned can shift his belongings to the family apartments.’

‘Up to the solar?’ Gwenn had not expected so complete a victory and knew how much it had must cost Alis to suggest it. ‘There’s no need to go to such lengths. We shall be perfectly happy lodged in the hall with the other families.’

‘But the children,’ the older woman objected immediately. ‘I do so love having them at hand.’

‘The children may stay in the solar. Katarin has slept like a log every night since we arrived, and as long as she knows where I am, she will not fret. She likes you Aunt Alis.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’

‘Indeed.’ Gwenn heard a horse pounding along the shrub-lined path which wound from the manor to the tip of the peninsular. Glancing up the beach, she saw Ned charge out of the bushes, mounted on one of Sir Gregor’s mares. His flaxen hair was wind-swept, he had Dancer on a leading rein, and he had apparently been searching for her, for when he saw her, he was out of the saddle, slinging both horses’ reins over a branch. Gwenn’s heart twisted. Purposefully, Ned stalked towards them. ‘It’s N...my husband,’ Gwenn said, unnecessarily, for she could see that her aunt had seen him. Alis was watching Ned warily, as though he were a poisonous snake that might strike at any moment. If only she knew, Gwenn thought, he is softer than she is herself. Ned wouldn’t hurt a soul.

‘Good morning, Lady Wymark,’ Ned said briskly, holding one of his solid, dependable hands out to Gwenn. Gwenn took an astonished look at the savage determination on his face and rose without a word. She placed her fingers in his. Ned did not look soft this morning. He looked as though he had come to the end of his tether; and his crushing grip told her that she had resolved the matter of her marriage not a moment too soon.

‘I wonder if you could spare Gwenn for a couple of hours, Lady Wymark,’ Ned went on, courteous but firm. ‘Her mare needs exercising, and it’s best if Gwenn rides her. She’s a fine beast, and I’d not want her to lose her stamina.’

‘N...no, I d...don’t mind. The mare must be exercised,’ Alis answered, obviously alarmed by Ned’s bearing. Gwenn couldn’t bring herself to meet her eyes. Ned was unwittingly confirming her prejudices. Absurdly, a giggle rose in Gwenn’s throat. Perhaps it would do no harm to let her aunt go on thinking that Ned was fierce – for a little while at least.

Concealing her amusement she asked, ‘Are you content to stay with the children, Aunt?’

‘What? Oh, yes, I’d be delighted to look after them.’

‘Shall I send for one of the women?’

‘N...no. No.’ Her aunt was rallying. ‘I can manage. Run along, my dear. I’ll bring them back to the solar when they’ve had their fill of the beach.’

‘Thank you, Aunt.’ Gwenn snatched up her veil, tucked it into her girdle, and let Ned lead her to Dancer. ‘I’m glad you found me, Ned,’ she opened, ‘for I’ve been talking to my aunt...’

***

Conan was caught just when he was beginning to think that there might be a God in Heaven. He should have known better, he thought resentfully, when the pain had eased enough for him to think once more. He should have known that life was not meant to be easy. If only he had not kept the merchant’s wallet. But it had been too good to discard, and he had been fascinated by the outlandish design stamped on the leather. Fool. He was a fool. And to think that he had got so near...

He had marched up to the guard at Sir Gregor’s gate, ready to offer himself up for work. He had demanded entry and was in the process of sweetening the man with one of his stolen coins when he heard a cavalcade of horses approaching the gate.

‘Stand aside, man,’ the guard admonished him. ‘It’s the merchant with my lady’s cloth, and wine from the south.’

Meekly Conan stood aside, and as he lifted his eyes to the man at the head of the little procession, his skin chilled and he knew his luck had run out. For Lady Wymark’s cloth merchant was the very man from whom he had lifted the scrip back in Lannion.

‘Jesus God,’ Conan said, whisking the incriminating object behind his back, for the merchant’s eyes had been drawn to his lost scrip like a bee to the flowers on which it feeds.

Conan had taken to his heels, of course, but it had been all over for him the moment the merchant had set eyes on his wallet. The merchant’s shriek was as piercing as a hawk’s, and no sooner had he pointed his fat finger than half a dozen of Sir Gregor’s burliest men went hurtling after Conan and pinned him to the ground.

Then came the accusations.

He denied it, naturally.

He said he’d found the purse lying in the road and could not find its owner. Naturally, no one believed him. Sir Gregor was the law in these parts, and they had hauled him up before him. He was tried; found guilty.

Then came the reckoning. Conan had always considered the loss of a hand was too great a penalty to pay for stealing. He had always vowed that he would never be caught. And if it had not been for the ill luck of having the same merchant come to visit Lady Wymark, he would have got away with it. It was too bad. The sentence was carried out at once. No one wanted the trouble and expense of keeping him locked up till the next quarter sessions. The merchant looked on, gloating and rubbing his hands together. His two hands.

Conan felt such agony that he did not even notice the added torture of the hot pitch being applied to his poor, bleeding stump. There was blood all over his new linen tunic. Kicked through the manor gate, he staggered back to the fisherman’s cottage where he had taken up residence since coming to Ploumanach. The fisherman’s wife was kind, in her way. She had bandaged his limb, and given him an evil-tasting draught which dulled the pain. If only, Conan thought, while he nursed his throbbing wrist, he had got rid of that blasted purse. If only he had not chosen that particular day to go the manor. They’d never take him on now, and he’d never get his hands – hand – on the wench’s jewel. He’d lost that forever. Branded as a thief in the eyes of the neighbourhood, Ploumanach had nothing to offer him. How would he live? What could he do with only his left hand? There was one avenue open. Beggary.

***

In August, two months after Conan’s sentence had been carried out, his arm was healing though it continued to ache. It was a dull, steady, throbbing ache, which plagued him day and night and was persistent enough to rob him of the will to look to his future. Begging, Conan discovered, was not as lucrative as peddling or spying. Soon, when he felt better, he would trudge back to Vannes, and see if he could strike up again with Count François de Roncier. In the meantime his energy had drained away, and it was all he could do to sit and hold out the hand he had left, and beg for alms.

When he had first taken up begging, Conan had stationed himself by the inn, grey mongrel at his side; but as the days passed, he decided the village well would be a more fruitful location. It was hot, and sooner or later everyone must come to the well, whereas not everyone patronised the inn.

There was little shade by the well, and as the flies buzzed round him, Conan hoped that it would not be an August like last year. Even here by the coast, the wind had dropped. Today, the sea shone smooth as polished metal. The fishermen grumbled and left their sails unhoisted. They took up oars instead. But it was almost too hot to row, and the fish seemed to sense this and swam provokingly near the surface, taunting the fishermen by dancing past their boats in their shoals – a million silvery darts which were always there when the nets lay heavy in the boats, and never there when they were lowered into the shining swell. Conan gleaned all of this and more, from listening to his patrons as they drew fresh water. The habit of hoarding away all that he heard had not deserted him.

Conan knew he was right to consider returning south where he could renew his association with Otto Malait and his lord. The beggar’s life was not for him. It sapped a man’s resources to have to rely on the charity of others.

Hearing hoof beats on the road from Wymark manor, Conan sighed and eased himself into the best position, with his stump held out so the passers-by would be treated to a full view of his loss. He bent his chin to his chest as though he were full of shame and had repented of his crime.

‘Spare me a coin.’ He had perfected the beggar’s whine, pitching his voice high, so it carried far. Two riders were approaching. They had a mule on a leading rein, packed for a long journey. ‘Give a wretched man alms, I implore you. Give alms to the needy.’

‘Ned, dig out some money,’ a soft voice said, and recognising it, Conan tensed. It was the concubine’s daughter. Conan did not look at her, but instead lifted his eyes to her companion’s face. The horseman was the Saxon mercenary, Ned Fletcher – apparently she’d married him. Conan noted Ned Fletcher’s bulging saddle bags and the purse which dangled from his narrow, belted waist.

The Saxon delved in his scrip. ‘Will this do?’

Conan caught the gleam of metal and sighed. His dog whimpered.

‘Give the poor man more,’ the soft voice pleaded. ‘Look, he’s lost a hand.’

‘The man’s no doubt a thief and deserved his punishment,’ came the unsympathetic response. Conan held his breath to see if the Saxon would bend to his wife’s will. Few men did.

‘Nevertheless, I feel sorry for him. I want to give more.’

A brace of English pennies sparkled silver in the summer sun. ‘Will this do?’ The man’s tone was tolerant, amused, the tone of a man head over heels in love.

‘Aye.’

The coins twirled to the ground at Conan’s feet, and the cur’s tail thumped the dust. Gripped by fear that he might be recognised, Conan ducked his head and kept his gaze nailed to the ground by the horses’ hoofs. ‘May Christ Jesu bless you for your munificence, my lady,’ he mumbled, left-handedly clawing in the grit for his coin.

‘Poor man,’ the concubine’s daughter said. And then, in a lighter vein, ‘Which way do we ride?’

‘South. We ride south for half a day, and then we turn east.’

‘I wonder whether we’ll ever return?’ she asked, wistfully.

Conan listened hard. Ever return? Were they going for good?

‘Why shouldn’t we return?’ her husband answered. ‘You’ll need to see your family.’

‘Yes. But if you go into service, we may not have any say in the matter.’

The Saxon reached out and squeezed his wife’s arm. ‘I’ll not chain you, Gwenn. You’re free to go where you will.’

‘Oh, Ned.’ The concubine’s daughter drew in a breath and her voice became livelier. ‘I’ve not been to the Île de France before.’

‘Neither have I.’ The Saxon clapped his heels to his gelding’s mahogany flanks. ‘Come on, my love.’

‘You’re not afraid my uncle will change his mind about lending you that horse, are you?’ she asked him, teasingly.

Ears straining, Conan digested what he had heard. Would the girl leave without her statue? Would she leave her treasure behind her? Conan thought not. The blood began to rush along his veins, reinvigorating him. As the riders’ voices faded, he raised his head and pushed himself to his feet. He was intent on branding the picture of them onto his brain. He’d not forget the girl’s mare – it was an uncommonly pretty creature with three white stockings. Unfortunately, the Englishman’s mount was unremarkable, a large-boned dark brown gelding whose prints were twice the size of the dainty mare’s. Eager to find some distinguishing trait about the routier’s horse, something that would enable him to pick it out in a crowd, Conan squinted at the dusty tracks. They’d been scuffled by the mule, but he could still see that Ned Fletcher’s unremarkable gelding came down more heavily on his nearside.

A painful thudding filled Conan’s head.

They must have the statue with them. He hadn’t been able to get his hands on it before, what with it being in Sir Gregor’s manor. But the Saxon was looking for a master. They were going without escort to the Île de France. And if they had the statue...

Conan’s narrow lips spread into a broad grin. It had been a long time since he had smiled, and the muscles on the side of his face were tight with disuse. Workman-like, he flexed his legs. He may have a stump where his right hand should be, but thank Christ his legs were sound. He could walk. He’d always been able to walk.

With a bloodless smile splitting his pain-creased face, Conan the beggar shook himself like his dog. There’d be no more beggary for him. He’d use one of the silver pennies to buy a loaf from the charitable fisherman’s wife who continued to lend him her roof at nights. He’d buy meat and a skinful of ale, and then he’d be off. He’d trail the handsome young couple who were heading for the Île de France. And seeing as the little madam was riding a mare that a princess would covet, they’d be easy to track, not that Conan was unduly concerned about losing them when he knew their destination.

Excitement and anticipation lent wings to his feet. There was only one reason why Ned Fletcher and his wife should head for the Île de France in August, and that was King Philip’s famous tournament. Perhaps the English Captain hoped to find his new master there. At his well-side vigil, Conan had heard the gossips say that Lady Wymark had taken against her niece’s husband because of his profession. That must be what had prompted them to leave.

Conan would follow the Fletchers to France.

Faithless as a whore, the fickle wind had changed and, belatedly, his ship was coming in.

Chapter Twenty-Six

‘How will we find him?’ Gwenn asked, staring wide-eyed past the empty lists into a boiling crowd. ‘There must be nigh on a thousand soldiers here.’

Close by, the heralds were overseeing repairs to a fence which marked the limit of the jousting field. To one side of the lists stood a canopied platform, a ladder was propped precariously against it. At the top of the ladder a carpenter was nailing swathes of rich blue silk to the canopy. His apprentice – who was meant to be steadying the ladder – was winking at a girl with breasts as round and cheeks as rosy as the apples she was offering for sale. The ladder shifted, only an inch, but the carpenter yelped and clutched at a crossbeam. The roll of cloth fell, and a waterfall of blue silk poured over the dry earth. ‘Jesu, Pierre!’ The carpenter’s shriek cut across the hubbub. ‘Try to lift your mind above your belt! Hold the bloody ladder steady!’

Gwenn stifled a laugh. ‘Ned, did you see that?’

Ned wasn’t listening. He was sitting bolt upright in his saddle, blue eyes intent as he took it all in. He was thinking that everything was exactly as Sir Waldin had described it, only Sir Waldin had failed to convey the grand scale of it all. There was so much of everything – so many people, so many horses, so much noise and bustle. Dozens of multi-coloured pavilions were ranged round the fringe of the field like small jewels edging a bishop’s ring. The lists themselves were empty save for a scattering of swallows swooping low over the barriers. Ned’s lips parted as he measured the length of the course, and ambitious dreams swirled in his mind’s eye.

Ned was determined to do well and make a name for himself. Gwenn came of knightly stock and he wanted her to be proud of him. Sir Waldin had hinted that men could rise through the ranks here. On the face of it, Ned was already well on the way. He had started out as a plain man-at-arms. He had been promoted to sergeant, and then to captain. He had married a knight’s daughter – something which a year ago would have seemed inconceivable. If that could happen, why should he not become squire to some knight, and thus earn his knighthood? He’d make it happen. His cousin was the Duke of Brittany’s captain, so he had the right connections.

‘Ned?’

‘Mmm? What is it?

‘How will we find Alan in all of this?’ Gwenn gestured at the chaotic throng of pages and squires, of marshals and heralds, of knights and nobles. Apart from the apple-seller and a couple of crimson-lipped prostitutes, there did not seem to be many women about. She felt a twinge of unease.

Ned smiled abstractedly. ‘Oh, that’s easy. We keep our eyes peeled for Brittany’s pavilion. I can see the ermine from here.’

‘You’ve seen the Duke’s colours?’ Waldin St Clair had seen that that particular gap in Gwenn’s education had been filled. She knew the Duke of Brittany’s shield bore ermine – represented by black dots on a white ‘field’ or background.

‘Aye. I see them. We can enquire of Alan’s whereabouts from there.’

They ran Alan to earth later that afternoon, just beyond the King’s cookhouse on the outskirts of the sprawling encampment. He was stretched out on a wolf pelt by a fire in front of a small, patched tent. His hands pillowed his head, and he was watching the white clouds float by like thistledown on a sluggish summer wind. A smoky-blue plume rose vertically from his fire. He had a fish wrapped in leaves on a makeshift spit. Idly, he reached out and gave the skewer a turn.

When Ned’s shadow fell over him, Alan smiled at his cousin quite unsurprised, as though he had seen him not half an hour before. ‘You’ll share this with me, I take it, Ned? It’s trout. The King’s still in Paris, and the official fare will be poisonous until his chef gets here.’

‘It smells good. We’d love to share it,’ Ned said equably.

‘We?’ Alan’s gaze fell on Gwenn hovering uncertainly behind her husband, and a quiver ran through him.

‘Well met, Alan,’ Gwenn said. Alan’s easy manner left him and Gwenn felt even more awkward. Half of her had been longing to see him again, counting the miles as they rode, but the other half had been dreading it. And here he was, scowling at her as though she was a woman who had walked uninvited into a man’s world. And though it irritated her to admit it, she did indeed feel out of place. Ned should have come to the King’s tourney on his own. She was no great dame to accompany her husband to the joust. Only great ladies and whores followed the circuit. But she was Ned’s wife, and there’d been little for him at Ploumanach. Alis had tried to accept him, but she had never felt at ease with him. So with Philippe and Katarin safe and content at Wymark manor, he and Gwenn had decided to leave and fulfil Ned’s long-cherished dream.

‘Blanche.’ Alan sat up and tossed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. ‘This is an unlooked for pleasure. I dared not hope that you would come.’ He was covering up his surprise by playing the gallant. Picking up his cloak, he threw it over a mossy tree stump that the King’s men had failed to uproot, and indicated that Gwenn was to sit on it. It was a good couple of yards from his fire.

‘My thanks.’ Wishing she did not feel so defensive, Gwenn tried out a cheerful smile. ‘Should I not be here?’

Alan was once more at his cooking, with his back on her. His voice was muffled. ‘I thought you wouldn’t want to leave the children.’

‘It wasn’t easy,’ Gwenn said, and unconsciously her hand drifted to her stomach. ‘But my aunt loves them dearly, and I know she will give them the care they need.’

‘Gwenn is considering entering the Duchess’s household,’ Ned said. ‘Why are you laughing, Alan?’

‘I take it you want to see something of your wife?’

‘Naturally. That’s why we thought it best she–’

‘Entered the Duchess’s household?’ Alan gave his head a firm shake. ‘No, my innocent. Duke Geoffrey and Duchess Constance are hardly ever together. If you put Gwenn in the Duchess’s train and you enlist with the Duke’s company, you won’t see her more than about twice a year.’

There was a silence while Ned digested this. ‘I assumed the Duke and Duchess met more frequently than that. The Duchess is coming to the tournament, isn’t she? Or was I misinformed?’

‘No, that information is correct. But it’s a rare meeting, prompted by duty alone,’ Alan said dryly. ‘They took an instant dislike to one another, and so far have failed to produce a male heir. But Duke Geoffrey wants a son, and so...’ Alan glanced at Gwenn who he saw was staring fixedly at the fire, ‘so these occasional...er...duty meetings take place. Rumour has it that the Duchess is with child already, but my guess is that His Grace wants to make sure.’ Observing that Gwenn’s hand had drifted protectively over her stomach, Alan felt himself frown. Was Gwenn pregnant? She noticed him staring and snatched her hand from her stomach, blushing red as a June rose. Her waist was slender as a wand, so if she was with child, it was early days. Alan wondered if his cousin knew. He had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Jesu, but he was hungry.

Jabbing at the fish with a stick, Alan took up a ragged piece of cloth and lifted the spit from the fire. ‘Done to a turn. Have you a tent with you?’ he asked, as he peeled leaf wrappings from the trout. The skin was lightly browned and the smell set his mouth watering.

‘We’ve no tent.’

‘You’re welcome to share mine. His Grace was generous, I’ve one to myself.’

Ned eyed Alan’s cramped quarters with misgivings. Alan had washed his second tunic, and that and his chausses were hanging on the guy ropes to dry. ‘We slept in taverns on the way here. I’d planned to sleep in the open.’

‘That won’t do. Why, even squires sleep in their master’s tents. Besides, it wouldn’t be safe for Gwenn.’ Alan lowered his voice. ‘Too many wolves on the prowl.’

‘Wolves?’ Gwenn stared at Alan’s wolf pelt. Her veil danced as she squinted into the trees.

Offering her some fish on a fresh leaf, Alan smiled into her eyes. ‘Only the human sort, my Blanche,’ he murmured. ‘Rest assured, that skin was not from these forests, it was a gift from my lord.’ Their gazes joined, and for a moment Alan could not free his eyes. It had been two and a half months since he had seen her – a lifetime – and he had been thirsting for close sight of her. She looked tired, and though the sun had left a faint dusting of gold along her cheekbones, there were charcoal smudges under the deep brown eyes. Her lashes were thicker and longer than he had remembered, and her nose prettier. Was her skin as soft as it looked?

Gwenn noticed that Alan’s face was thinner. His hair was blacker and shinier than her memory had painted it, and his eyes were flecked with silver lights. Unusually, they were open as the day. Her stomach lurched. His mouth was smiling, a gentle, resigned smile, with the merest hint of that sinful curve that had always made her cheeks burn. Hastily, she directed her gaze to the fish he was offering her. His fingernails were as bitten as ever.

Ned watched his wife and his cousin, and the play of expressions on their faces gave him a sudden sense of unease.

Alan cleared his throat and addressed Ned over his shoulder. ‘Your wife would be safer out of sight at night, cousin, lest the wolves mistake her for a woman of easy virtue.’

Gwenn lowered her head over her fish and wondered if she wanted to be safe. Alan le Bret had always been able to make her toes tingle. And Ned, well, she loved Ned and was carrying his child, but he never made her toes tingle. Oh, God. Life was growing more complicated by the day, and the more she thought about it, the worse the tangle became. At Wymark manor it had seemed obvious that they must make a life elsewhere. And where should they come but to the King’s joust, where Ned could ask Alan for help in finding a patron? And here was Alan, and Ned, and... Could a woman love two men? Dear God.

Ned was wrestling with a ghastly uncertainty. Could he trust his cousin with his wife? ‘I think I will buy a tent, Alan. I thought I saw someone selling them, back by the river.’

‘Don’t think of it.’ Alan shook his head. ‘They’re a bunch of thieves. They follow the tourney circuit and double, even triple the price. There are always dolts ready to pay through the nose in order the save a trip back to Paris. I’ve heard it said they remove tent pegs in the night, in order to re-sell them at inflated prices to their original owners next day.’

Ned hesitated.

Alan sent his cousin a reassuring smile. ‘Gwenn will be quite safe in my tent, I assure you, Ned.’

Ned relaxed, and cursed himself for thinking ill of his cousin. ‘My thanks, Alan.’

***

Less than a mile away, Count François de Roncier headed a small company of some twenty men bound for the King’s joust. On his right hand rode a keen young knight of his household. This knight, a raw recruit, name of Walter Venner, was full of zeal. He was wearing his helmet as were others in the Count’s troop, but despite the heat, he had his visor down, and his features were completely obscured. It lent him a fearsome, mysterious air. François did not object, for he viewed the King’s tournament as little more than an exercise in self-promotion, and Venner could only enhance his reputation by comporting himself in so bellicose a manner.

At his left hand Otto Malait sat astride his bony charger.

François was in a rare holiday mood, and he had been speaking in a jocular manner with his knight. He turned to include the Norseman in the conversation. ‘Advise me, Malait. Where shall I pitch my tent? In the space reserved by King Philippe for the French, or in the section cordoned off by the Duke of Brittany?’

‘A knotty problem, mon seigneur.’ Otto responded, well aware that this must be some sort of test, for on the rare occasions the Count sought counsel, it was from the Dowager Countess, not his men. ‘But as you are come at King Philip’s invitation, I would suggest the French quarter. And you are French by blood, mon seigneur.’

François turned to Venner. ‘What say you, Sir Walter?’

‘I would think, mon seigneur, it would depend on which overlord you feel more bound to.’ Venner’s voice was muffled by his helm. ‘Most of your lands are in Brittany, are they not?’

‘They are.’

‘I heard, mon seigneur, that you had family troubles with rival claimants to those lands. If I were you, I’d camp with Brittany. You’ve more at stake if you lost his favour.’

‘What you say is true. But I’ve settled matters entirely to my satisfaction in Brittany.’

‘You’ve eliminated your rival?’

‘Just so.’

‘Then, mon seigneur, I would say it mattered little where you strike camp.’

François beamed at his youngest knight, delighted to find the latest addition to his household had a modicum of intelligence. But he could not keep smiling at a man when all he could see of him was the glitter of his eyes through a slit in his visor. His smile died. ‘I’ve an eye to advancing my interests in France,’ François murmured under his breath. ‘Captain?’

‘Mon seigneur?’

‘Find the French section. We’ll camp there. And pitch my pavilion as close to King Philippe’s as humanly possible.’

***

Two days before the jousting began, Conan limped into the enclosure.

He’d not had an easy journey, but in Paris he had begged passage for himself and the shabby grey mongrel on a carter’s waggon. The carter was transporting hazel-wand cages bristling with hens, and it was agreed that Conan should keep an eye on them and make sure no one made off with them.

‘These hens,’ the burly Frenchman said proudly, ‘are bound for the King’s board. His chef would skin me alive if I lost any.’

Conan was set down on the outskirts of the teeming encampment, in the Breton section. Despite the rest his feet had had while riding in the cart, they remained sore. He’d walked his way through the soles of his boots, and though he’d spotted cobblers aplenty in Paris, he could not afford city prices. Consequently he was barefoot, a state of affairs that he was determined he would not have to endure for much longer.

Hobbling out of the path of a mailed knight atop a mountain of a horse, Conan sat down to chafe his aching feet and consider where he’d be most likely to find the chicken he intended plucking. He deemed it wisest to begin immediately, before hunger and thirst took their toll, and he headed straight for the area that had been cordoned off for the Bretons’ horses.

The girl’s high-bred mare was easy to find. It was tethered not far from three young grooms with Brittany’s livery splashed across their broad breasts. The lads were seated in a circle on upturned leather buckets, dicing on the base of a fourth bucket. They were meant to be on guard. The tallest of them was chewing a piece of straw and he looked enquiringly at Conan, while one of his fellows rolled the dice.