Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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Chapter Three

The nave of St Peter’s was a dim and draughty place even when crammed to capacity. As was the custom, the congregation stood on the bare earth floor. There were no pews or benches.

A bony elbow dug Gwenn in the ribs. A pair of unfriendly black eyes leered out of an unshaven face, and a pungent, sweaty odour wrinkled her nostrils. There were some rough characters in the church today, with cold, hard faces. Belatedly remembering her modesty, Gwenn pulled her veil close about her as her grandmother had taught her, and shuffled towards Irene Brasher. She shivered. If only she had been more sensible about her choice of clothing. She should have worn a woollen dress instead of the flimsy blue silk. A series of frosts and thaws during the winter had caused the wooden walls of the ancient church to warp; draughts whipped through the cracks and whistled over the heads of the townsfolk.

High in the shadows of the roof, sparrows hopped along crossbeams with twigs and straw fast in their beaks, like tiny tumblers carrying balancing poles. The sparrows’ nests were clustered among cobwebs that hung thick and black with the dust of ages. The sparrows, like the martins, were rebuilding for spring with a single-minded determination that no Lady Day sermon would stop. A spatter of bird dropping plummeted earthwards and landed slap in the centre of a merchant’s cap.

Gwenn nudged Irene’s foot. ‘A hit,’ she hissed. Irene giggled. Giggles in church were invariably infectious, and Gwenn felt laughter rise within her for all that she bit her lips to contain it.

‘Hush!’ Jammed next to Gwenn was an elderly woman swathed in widow’s garb from head to toe. She lived near the Close, but was not on speaking terms with Gwenn’s family. The woman was wagging a censorious finger under Gwenn’s nose, and it seemed to Gwenn that the woman recognised her, for all at once she looked startled. The widow’s words confirmed this, ‘I didn’t expect to see you here today, girl. Get out, if you’ve sense.’

‘Shhh! Shhh!’ Someone quieted the woman and a coarse, male voice barked out a word Gwenn had never encountered before, not even from her brother Raymond, but instinctively she knew it was more suited to a tavern than a holy place. The widow went the colour of ripe strawberries and her snowy wimple shook with fury. She gave Gwenn one final warning look and sealed her lips.

Gwenn was wondering if the woman’s agitation at her presence was due to her being out without Izabel, when a movement in the choir caught her attention. ‘Look, Irene.’ She pointed, and Father Jerome, it could be no other, stalked through the vestry door and into the transept. His dome of a head was held high, his eyes shone with conviction and his countenance alone was fierce enough to put the fear of God into all who looked upon him. Gwenn exchanged glances with Irene, and the woman’s strange warning went right out of her head. She was used to the comfortable friendliness of Father Mark, the local priest. Father Jerome did not look comfortable, nor did he look friendly. He exuded power. He looked more powerful even than the bishop, and he was not at all what Gwenn had been expecting. The Black Monk looked – she searched for the word – warlike.

Like most of those in the nave, Gwenn had been drawn to the church because the monk’s reputation had preceded him. A member of the Benedictine Order, and addressed as Father rather than Brother because of his position as a consecrated priest, Father Jerome was famed for his powers of oratory. Today, as part of the Lady Day celebrations, Father Jerome was condescending to speak in the Breton tongue, so all would be able to understand him. It was a rare privilege to be permitted to understand a man of the Church. Most services were held in Latin, God’s special language. Churchmen spoke and wrote in that exclusive tongue, and the simple folk were not expected to understand it. Gwenn was reasonably familiar with Latin, because she had sat in on Raymond’s lessons, but Gwenn’s knowledge was exceptional. Normally, understanding was reserved for the higher orders. People attended church for fear of God, or because it was expected of them, or because it was a good place to meet their friends. In Vannes the townsfolk were drawn to the cathedral because they loved Father Mark.

When it became known that Father Jerome was prepared to spread God’s word in the language of the people, the townsfolk had been intrigued. It did not matter that he was reputed to be uncompromising and hard on sinners. He was going to speak in Breton – in their own dialect. Gwenn had been looking forward to hearing what the Benedictine had to say, but now that she had seen him, and noticed the unfriendly looks on the faces of some of the congregation, doubt stirred within her.

Tall and stately as a king’s champion, Father Jerome gathered his habit into his hand and strode onto the platform. It was odd seeing him in Father Mark’s place, odd seeing his fierce eyes glare at the assembly when Father Mark and their own bishop usually smiled gentle blessings on everyone. Father Jerome did not look like a man who would understand the common failings of the congregation. He did not look like a man who would understand the meaning of the word mercy, or, for that matter, like a man who would forgive people their sins. Gwenn felt depressed, and though it was ridiculous, she felt as though Father Jerome had stolen the joy out of the day. He looked like a man who would steal the joy from everything.

No one in the crowd was moving. Would they dare? No one so much as coughed. Father Jerome’s eyes shone like lamps over the people of Vannes. A sparrow chirped from its vantage point on a crossbeam, and a spasm crossed the monk’s severe features. Despite Gwenn’s growing sense of unease, an irreverent thought bubbled up. Rather than blessing the birds of the air, Father Jerome would have that sparrow in a pot, for daring to spoil his performance.

‘Brothers and sisters,’ he began, ‘we are gathered here on the day that Our Lady received the glad tidings from the Angel of the Lord...’

Gwenn did not like the monk’s voice any more than his face. It was high for a man of his build and stature, high and scratchy; but she had to acknowledge it was penetrating, which for a preacher was no doubt a good thing. And with those beacons instead of eyes... Doubtless Father Jerome had chosen the right vocation, but she did not want to waste a promising spring morning listening to him. And the air, there not enough air in the nave for all these people.

Gwenn looked at Irene, who ignored her. Her friend was already in the monk’s thrall.

‘Blessed art thou among women,’ Father Jerome intoned.

Craning her neck, Gwenn tried to see how far it was to the door. There was nothing new in what the monk was saying. She’d known the Hail Mary by heart since she was small; her pious grandmother insisted she recite it several times a day.

The door was wedged open, and bright, spring sunshine was lighting up the disgruntled expressions of several latecomers who were pressing into the nave. Why was everyone looking so dour this morning? It was almost as though they were frowning at her, so many of them seemed to be looking in her direction. With a sinking feeling, Gwenn scrutinised her neighbours’ faces. With the exception of Irene and the wimpled widow who was studiously ignoring her, they were frowning at her. Feeling stifled, Gwenn took a deep gulp of the rank, sweat-laden air. She caught sight of the same cold, dark eyes she had seen when she had first entered the nave, and a wave of nausea swept through her. She would have to get out into the fresh air of the Close.

The strident tones resounded from the pulpit, ‘I have come to you today, brothers and sisters, because it has come to my attention that here, in your town, there are residing women whose presence brings shame on you all. Women whose very existence is an insult to that most blessed of women, Our Saviour’s Lady Mother, whom it is our duty to honour on this her Feast – Lady Day.’ Father Jerome leaned on the lectern and paused, for effect.

Gwenn began pushing to the door. She did not like the sound of that. She would not listen to another word. She would wait out in the sun and speak to Irene after his sermon was over. She’d not have her new friend being gulled by a man like that. Quietly, she left the church.

Leaning her back against the south wall of the cathedral, she closed her eyes. The sun was warm on her skin, the air blessedly fresh. The house martins twittered in the eaves, and Father Jerome’s scratchy voice was muffled, just a low, distant drone. Gwenn focused her mind on the martins and drifted into a pleasant daydream.

A sharp cry jerked her back to reality. She strained her ears and heard the sound again. ‘Get ‘em out!’ Gwenn frowned. That cry came from within the cathedral. Surely even Father Jerome would not permit...?

‘Out! Out! Out!’ The chorus of harsh voices came from the vicinity of the choir. A strange sermon, this.

‘Purge!’ someone screeched.

‘Purify!’ cried another.

The shouts floated out via the west door, the one Gwenn had left by. She ran her hand – it was trembling – along the rough grain of the wood until she found a knot-hole in the wall. Applying her ear to it, she could hear the congregation shuffling and mumbling inside. It was sounding more nasty by the minute.

A man’s screech overrode the general mutterings. ‘They’re naught but leeches.’

‘Aye!’ A woman’s dissonant howl took up the cry. ‘Leeches! Get rid of them. They prey on our men! They seduce them onto the Devil’s path, and rob them of hard-won silver! What does that leave for honest women?’

‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’

‘Brothers! Sisters!’ Father Jerome shrilled over the swelling clamour. The hole in the planking did not permit Gwenn to see the monk, but she could visualise him, holding his thin white hands up for silence. ‘The Church cannot condone murder. We must endeavour to turn our erring sisters back onto the True Path. We must purge them of their sins.’

‘Nay, Father. Get rid of them!’

‘Cast them out!’

‘Aye. God cast Adam and Eve out of Eden.’

‘Out! Out! Out!’ An ugly chanting began. Where was kind Father Mark?

The hairs lifted on the back of Gwenn’s neck, and her senses sharpened. She was being watched. Straightening slowly, she backed from the wall. The air in the Close seemed to pulse with menace.

One of the youths who had been squeezing into the porch had come back into the square. He was tall, with shining flaxen hair grown below his ears. He was slender and perhaps a couple of years older than her brother, Raymond. He wore a sword. A sword? Surely he should not have been wearing his sword in God’s house? As Gwenn stared at him, her mouth went dry. Was he the source of the evil she felt? He did not look evil. His leather military tunic looked wrong on him. He was surely a handsome young farmer wearing borrowed attire. A sheep in wolf’s clothing? She hesitated.

‘Get away, girl! Run!’ the young man hissed, in heavily accented French. He waved his arms frantically in her direction.

He could not be talking to her... Astonishment pinned her to the spot.

‘Get away!’ he repeated, and his blue eyes seemed to be pleading with her.

He had kind eyes. He was not evil, Gwenn decided, not with eyes like that. Definitely a sheep in wolf’s clothing. But with his soldier’s gambeson and his sword, he must be a mercenary. If the sense of threat had not emanated from him, from whom had it come?

The fair youth glanced over his shoulder into the porch, and when he looked back at her, his face registered desperation. He meant her no harm, but the air was thick with evil, Gwenn could all but see it.

‘Run!’ the young man begged. ‘Run!’

The urgency in his eyes communicated itself to Gwenn, but before she had time to move, someone else stepped out, and this man also wore a padded military gambeson. ‘What is it, Fletcher? Found something interesting?’ the newcomer asked, in a bored voice.

‘N...no, Al...I mean, Captain le Bret. Only a girl.’

‘A girl, eh?’

The man named le Bret looked at Gwenn, and the heat went out of the sun. His hair was thick and dark, long for a soldier like his companion’s, and swept back to one side. His skin was swarthy. He had steely grey eyes and the sardonic lines etched into his face told Gwenn that here was a man who looked at the world and found nothing in it that was pleasing. He was unshaven and in need of a wash. He terrified her.

Alan found himself scowling at a small doll of a girl, dressed up in a blue gown that the Duchess Constance would have been proud to call her own. ‘Fletcher,’ he rubbed his chin, ‘it’s the one. She answers the pedlar’s description.’

‘Let her go, Al...Captain!’ Ned gabbled. ‘Look at her – a child. She can’t be involved.’

Alan felt a stir in the porch behind him. The zealots were about to break out, and the girl did not seem to be aware of the danger she was in. With an oblique smile, Alan bent to pick up a stone. Ned grabbed his sleeve. ‘You’re impertinent, Fletcher.’ Coldly, Alan shook his cousin off, his tone a reminder of the differences in their status. ‘As it happens, I agree with you. That’s why this,’ Alan took careful aim, ‘will see her on her way and out of danger.’ The stone flew across the square, and hit the girl in her stomach. Alan heard her whimper, but his stone had served its purpose and goaded her out of that perilous immobility, for she picked up her skirts and turned tail, running like a doe in the chase.

No sooner was she darting towards the maze of streets than the vast oak doors burst outwards.

‘Here come the hounds,’ Alan murmured, as the townsfolk charged out of the cathedral. ‘Good, honest men all.’ His lip curled. His men had done their work. He waved them to one side. There was no need for them to waste wind chasing the girl. The good people of Vannes, whipped up by Father Jerome, would see the task completed.

It had been one of the easiest commissions he’d taken on. Who would have thought that it would take so little to stir peace-loving townsfolk into a frenzy? All he’d done was station a man here and there in the crowd and have them call out the odd phrase or two of encouragement. A shout here, a shout there, and their work was done. Naturally, as excommunicate mercenaries, none of them should have put a toe past the threshold of a church, but the congregation had been so taken with Father Jerome that not one of them had noticed. And if they had – his scorn grew – none of them would have had the backbone to object.

He propped a strong shoulder against a painted angel on a carved porch pillar. ‘Look, Fletcher, all we have to do is sit back and watch. The God-fearing townsfolk will finish the job. It couldn’t be better. De Roncier won’t be implicated. He’ll be delighted. And to think they miscall us–’

‘I’m disgusted.’

Alan had never seen Ned look so miserable. Smiling, he shook his head. ‘That’s humanity for you, my lad,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘We’re all rotten when it comes down to it. We all have our price.’

But his cousin stood dumb at his side, staring after the girl. Alan saw him swallow. There was a flash of blue, brief as a glimpse of a kingfisher, and the girl disappeared round the corner.

A howl went up from the mob that had lately been a pious congregation. ‘There! Did you see?’ A man pointed.

‘What? Where?’

‘That’s Herevi’s daughter! The whore’s daughter!’ The crowd surged down the street, trawling for missiles as they went.

Ned understood that guttural Breton all too well, and his hand inched to his sword hilt.

Alan sighed and moved to block his way.

‘But the girl, Alan!’ In his anxiety, Ned had forgotten his cousin was his commander. ‘They’ll tear her to shreds!’

‘I think not. She looked fleet and she had a head start.’

‘I want to make sure she’s safe.’

‘You make one move after her, Edward, my lad, and I’ll see to it you forfeit every penny de Roncier owes you.’

Alan took Ned’s slack-jawed look of disbelief without a flinching. ‘You b...bastard!’ Ned got out, tripping over his tongue. ‘You bastard!’

Alan shrugged. The more enraged Ned became, the easier it was for him to maintain his distance. Long ago, Alan had discovered that an ability to remain unmoved in the face of other people’s anger was a great strength. ‘Aye,’ he agreed, blandly, ‘and you’d do best to remember that.’

The anger was slow to fade from the young trooper’s face. ‘My mother told me you were like this,’ he said, when he had calmed enough to speak coherently, ‘before we left England. She was against my going with you. But I admired my clever older cousin; I was envious of the skills your father had taught you, and longed to be as deft with the sword. God help me, I longed for your sang-froid. I looked up to you, and I thought my mother was wrong. I took your coldness for a mask which you chose to hide behind. But my mother was not wrong, was she, Alan? It’s more than a mask. It goes right through.’

Alan simply looked at Ned.

‘Jesu, Alan! You’ve a heart of stone!’

Alan let a corner of his mouth twitch upwards. ‘But I survive, Ned. And that’s the beginning and the end of it.’

Ned snorted.

Alan turned on his heel. ‘We should leave before St Clair hears about this. De Roncier doesn’t want a full-blown war on his hands. For God’s sake, pull yourself together, Ned. You’ve the makings of a good soldier if you don’t let your emotions master you.’

Though Alan would never confess it, he was relieved this distasteful business was concluded. With luck the townsfolk would scare the women witless, and they would fly Vannes. He wondered what they had done to incur de Roncier’s wrath; but when a few moments’ thought did not throw up a satisfactory answer, he fell to wondering what his next commission would entail. He hoped it would be a good, straight fight. Of course he’d do anything as long as he was paid for it – he was a professional – but affairs like this left him with a sour taste in his mouth for all that he affected otherwise. Privately, he agreed with Ned, it was a shabby affair. They had been setting a mob on a defenceless girl. She’d be bound to outrun them, but whatever angle you viewed it from, it remained a dirty business. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. A good, straight fight, that’s what he wanted. There was nothing quite like pitting yourself against an equal and winning.

A happy thought came to him. ‘Fletcher?’

‘Sir?’

‘Didn’t the good monk say today was Lady Day?’

‘He did. What of it?’

‘Lady Day is a Quarter Day.’ Alan signalled to his men to fall in behind him.

‘Pay day!’

‘Quite so. Remind me to have a word in my lord’s ear. We can’t have de Roncier neglecting his obligations, when we’re so efficient, eh?’

‘N...no, sir.’

With Ned toeing the line again, Alan turned his mind to de Roncier. De Roncier had a bad name when it came to paying his dues, and when Alan and Ned had enlisted, Alan knew there was a chance they might never get paid. But work for inexperienced soldiers was hard to find, and when they’d both been accepted, he’d jumped at the chance, being unwilling at that stage to leave young Ned to fend for himself. Alan might well have become a cold-blooded mercenary as his cousin claimed, but of all de Roncier’s officers he prided himself on the fact that Captain Alan le Bret saw his men got paid first. Impatiently, Alan pushed Ned’s disapproval to one side. Ned could do a lot worse, and he knew it.

***

Gwenn pelted the full length of La Rue des Vierges in an attempt to shake off the mob, but she could still hear them and knew that she had failed.

It was the worst of nightmares.

Burned into her brain was the image of the dark mercenary bending to scoop up the stone. Over and over in her mind’s eye she saw his cold eyes narrow as he took aim. The bruise on her stomach throbbed in time with the thumping of her heart; but despite this proof that this was no nightmare but grim reality, Gwenn’s disbelieving mind was frozen with shock. She could not believe that this was happening to her. Why should someone she had never seen before set a mob on her? Why? The question echoed back and forth in her head.

Fortunately, her legs worked independently of her stunned brain, and Gwenn flew to the crossroads where La Rue des Vierges and La Rue de la Monnaie met. Her veil slipped from her head. She left it behind. She ran on up the street, towards safety. She slipped in some mud, lost a shoe, and staggered on without it. The street had never seemed so long before.

Clutching her chest to keep her heart from bursting, she skidded to a halt and dragged in a lungful of air. Ten dwellings away, her mother’s house beckoned. Safety. Gwenn balked. Safety? Frozen no longer, her thoughts whirled. What was she to do? Lead the mob to the doorstep of her home? What would they do if they followed her there?

It made no sense. None of this made any sense. There had been people she knew in St Peter’s, people who yesterday, while they had not been friendly, had at least had exchanged the time of day with her and her grandmother. Why was this happening? Why? If Father Jerome’s words had wrought this change in the townsfolk, then his words must issue from the mouth of the Devil. This was not the work of God.

Gwenn sucked in another lungful of air and glanced back the way she had come. ‘Sweet Mary, let them not have seen me come down this street.’ And then her heart leaped into her throat, for her veil was fluttering from a nail on a post, as bright and as brash as a knight’s pennon at a joust. Her blue silk slipper betrayed her too; it sat glowing like a jewel in a dark muddy patch. She couldn’t have left a more obvious track if she’d tried. She must retrieve her possessions before they were seen.

Two people hurtled into view. There was no sign of the soldier who had thrown the first stone, but an exultant howl rose on the warm spring air. ‘The whore’s bastard! Get her!’

More people appeared, and more. They stopped at the head of the street. They looked at her. They seemed to be waiting, and all of the time more of them came, and more, like floodwater building up behind a beaver’s dam that must give way at any moment.

Gwenn let out a whimper and was off again. No time to retrieve either veil or shoe. It was too late anyway, they’d seen her. No time to think what they’d do when she got home. She must run, run, run. Something stung the back of her head. She ignored it. Something struck her shoulder. She missed her footing. All but blind with panic, she found her feet and charged on.

‘Run, Gwenn! Run!’ Her brother’s voice! It came from somewhere in front of her. She raced towards it, sobbing with relief. ‘Run, Gwenn!’ Raymond was at her side. She could not see him clearly for a dark mist clouded her vision.

It was raining missiles. One of them smacked her cheek. Raymond must have been hit too, for blood was streaked across his temple, and his wavy brown hair was plastered with mud. Two years her senior, Raymond had long legs. She would never keep pace with him. But Raymond had her by the arm, was dragging, pushing, shoving.

‘Raymond!’ Gwenn managed to screech. ‘They’re on us!’

‘Save your breath! Inside!’ Wrenching the door wide, Raymond bundled her up the steps. The door crashed. Three heavy bolts rammed home. Gwenn’s legs gave beneath her and she fell gasping onto the floorboards. The dark mist was thicker and starred with white dots.

Izabel had been setting pleats in a chainse – a shirt – in the light inside the doorway. ‘Whatever is it? What’s amiss?’ she demanded querulously, throwing the snowy linen aside.

Gwenn looked up as her grandmother floated towards her through wave after wave of starry blackness. The starry blackness began to drift up and down in front of Gwenn’s eyes, like a curtain waving in the breeze. ‘Blessed Mother–’

‘No swearing, Gwenn.’

Gwenn choked down a bitter laugh. Did Izabel not realise? Something heavy smashed against the door, bowing the planks inwards. Yelping like a scalded cat, Raymond jumped backwards.

‘The shutters!’ Gwenn scrambled onto legs of jelly. She lurched for the window. Slamming the shutters, she dropped the bar in place, and plunged them into a shadow world.

‘What’s the matter?’ Izabel demanded. ‘What’s happening?’ And on another note, ‘Just look at the state of you!’

‘Oh, Grandmama...’ The hinges rattled, freezing the words on Gwenn’s tongue.

A white-lipped Raymond was wrestling with the linen press, which he dragged in front of the door. ‘That should hold them for a while.’ He attempted a smile, but the green eyes that were his legacy from his mother were not warmed by it.

‘What have I done?’ Gwenn groaned, as the reality of their plight dawned on her. Was the mob out at the back too? If so, they were caught like rats in a trap. ‘Sweet heaven, I led them here! I’ve brought them home!’

A missile crashed against a shutter. A rock? A stave?

Izabel’s face was still, her eyes bulged as she watched the shutter bounce under the impact of another blow. ‘Who, dear? Who have you brought home? Gwenn, what have you done?’

‘Done! Blood of Christ, Grandmère, Gwenn’s done nothing!’ Raymond exploded. ‘It’s that prattling priest who’s to blame!’

‘I brought them here!’

Stiffly, for her bones ached like the plague, Izabel went to put her arm around her granddaughter. ‘Oh, Gwenn, why did you go out alone? I told you – why, you’re shaking.’

Gulping down a sob, Gwenn did her best to explain.

Izabel listened, and the blood drained steadily from her withered cheeks as Gwenn’s tale drew to its appalling conclusion.

‘But why should anyone want you stoned?’

‘They want to frighten me, Maman,’ Yolande said, coming down the stairs. Katarin was balanced on one hip.

‘You, Mama?’ This from Raymond.

Nodding, Yolande set her youngest down and put a gentle forefinger to the congealing blood on her son’s temple. She looked immeasurably sad.

‘But why, Mama?’

A man had followed Yolande downstairs. He stood in the doorway listening. The man was upstanding. He had a young-looking body, fit and strong, but the lines around his eyes and the grey strands which threaded through both hair and moustache betrayed him to be in his early forties. ‘Your kinsman, Count François de Roncier’s been sowing seeds, if I judge it aright,’ he said tersely.

Gwenn’s head shot up, and she stared into dark brown eyes that mirrored her own. The eyes were angry, burning eyes, like a banked-down fire which was likely to flare up at the slightest draught. ‘Sir Jean!’ Climbing to her feet, Gwenn made a valiant attempt to curtsy, her legs wobbling. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I...I didn’t mean to bring them here.’

Jean St Clair put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders and smiled gently at her. ‘Don’t apologise, Gwenn. Where else would you come but to your home?’

Gwenn realised his fury was not directed at her but at those who might have harmed her, and at himself for not foreseeing this. It had gone ominously quiet in the street.

‘Shouldn’t they have got in by now, sir? I thought they would have had the door down in no time, they were baying for blood. What’s keeping them?’

The knight took Gwenn’s elbow and steered her to the window. When he reached for the shutter, she flinched and strained back. ‘All’s well, Gwenn,’ he soothed, and flung back the shutter. ‘I have men out there. Look. No one’s going to break in.’

Four men-at-arms wearing St Clair’s red and green colours ranged across the street. Their tunics might be shamefully moth-eaten, the dyes might be faded, but the March sunlight sparkled on carefully polished steel. Facing them, at a distance of not more than two yards, was the crowd. They were silent, and now that they had been robbed of their prey, they looked sullen. The heat had run out of them like water from a sieve. Some stood awkwardly, guilt etched into their features, while others sneaked away, shamefaced.

‘See, Gwenn, how four can hold back an army,’ St Clair said with a tight little smile.

Yolande came across and took her daughter in her arms. ‘It’s over. Over and done with.’

‘Is it, ma mère?’ Raymond murmured.

Yolande eyed Izabel. ‘Maman, please take the children upstairs. There’s water in the ewer. They’ve mud in their hair, and Raymond’s cheek needs attending.’

‘It’s not mud, Mama,’ Raymond said. ‘Can’t you smell it? It’s fish entrails and horse-sh–’

Izabel’s age-spotted fingers stopped his mouth. ‘Hush, Raymond. Your mother’s in the right. You look like a pair of beggars. Upstairs with you both.’ She held her hand to Katarin, and the child scurried towards her.

Raymond thrust out a lip above which a fuzz of adolescent hair was evident. ‘I’m not a child. I’m fifteen.’ Nonetheless he permitted his grandmother to shepherd him towards the stairs. Gwenn followed.

Yolande kept up the calm pretence until her mother and children were out of earshot. ‘How could you, Jean? How could you? You keep your ears to the ground. You must have got wind of what de Roncier was planning. You know what Gwenn’s like. Why did you not warn me to keep a particularly sharp eye on her?’

Jean flushed. ‘Father Jerome keeps a sword where other men keep their tongues. I did warn you–’

‘Warn me?’ Yolande’s voice cracked. ‘All you said was that if you were me you wouldn’t let her fill her ears with the monk’s nonsense. You didn’t tell me our daughter would be risking her life if she ventured onto the streets!’

Jean moved towards Yolande, hand outstretched. ‘Yolande, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t realise the extent–’

Yolande batted the hand away. ‘Liar! You knew. You suspected something was going to happen. Why else bring your men today?’ She read her lover’s silence as guilt. ‘Holy Mother, you did know!’

‘No. No. I misread the signs.’

Yolande took a pace or two round the chamber while she fought for calm. ‘We shall have to leave.’

‘Eh?’

‘Leave.’

‘But Yolande–’

She spun round, green skirts swirling. ‘I insist, Jean. The sooner the better. I won’t stay in a town where the people terrorise thirteen-year-old girls!’ Glaring at the knight, and gripped with a clear, cold fury, Yolande wondered whether she could persuade him to take them to his manor at Kermaria, a small hamlet to the west of Vannes. She had put up with the little town house while her family had been safe, but now that the Benedictine had infected all Vannes with virtue, that had changed. She swallowed down her bile, wise enough to realise that she did not want Jean on the defensive. An enraged man never gave a woman anything. ‘I’ve had enough of this life,’ she said, testing the waters. ‘You have to choose.’