Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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Текущая страница: 34 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

‘I can see that. It’s associated with past miseries. But don’t let a lump of pink granite,’ Agnes allowed a sneer to enter her voice, for it would do Gwenn no harm to realise her icon could be mocked, ‘colour your life. It has become an obsession, and it’s blinding you to the real problem, which is the diamond.’ Agnes could not accept that in itself the Stone Rose was evil. But it was Gwenn’s belief that counted, and if Gwenn believed it evil, the statue had best be destroyed.

Gwenn went cold as she thought about it, as she numbered her sorrows. Her eyes skated about over the beaten earth floor, and her mind sought for another way out. She had no option but to hide the gem and get rid of the statue, for while she kept it she was a marked woman, potential prey for every mercenary who had ever heard about the Stone Rose and what it was meant to contain.

She gripped Agnes’s arm. ‘And what about Alan? What do I tell him when he discovers a horseman has been creeping around, asking questions? Do I tell him about the gem? Dare I put it in Alan’s keeping? What if he–?’

‘I think, Gwenn, you should trust Alan.’

Gwenn’s laugh was wild and bitter. ‘Trust Alan? Are your wits addled?’

‘I am his aunt, Gwenn. Never forget that,’ Agnes said. Alan was due a measure of loyalty. And while Agnes knew her nephew had done more than his share of evil, she could not help loving him. And so, she believed, did Gwenn. This would be a test for Gwenn as much as for Alan, but Gwenn was yet to realise this.

Agnes was wrong. Gwenn had realised. Dropping her eyes, she murmured, ‘My apologies.’ She sat silently for a space, thinking. She wanted to trust Alan. She wanted him to love her. But she had never been able to put out of her mind the fact that he had once attempted to take the diamond. If he knew she had it, would he still covet it? Would he affect to love her for it? Did she love Alan enough to trust him, unreservedly? She sucked in a breath, opened her eyes fully, and gave Agnes a direct look. ‘I’ll hide the gem and take the statue to the river.’

‘Aye.’

‘And I’ll take the gamble with Alan. Win all, or lose all.’

Agnes thought it a shame that Gwenn realised how much hung in the balance, for her decision was difficult enough without concerning herself over Alan. Agnes could not help her there. Gwenn had put her finger on it. It was a risk. But if her gamble paid off...

‘At least I’ll know where his loyalties lie,’ Gwenn said, steadily. She squared her shoulders. ‘The waiting will be over. I’ll get rid of it, Agnes, and tell Alan everything. It’s the only thing to do. Then there will be no more wondering. It might even be a relief.’ She moved swiftly to the door.

‘God speed.’ Agnes blessed her with the sign of the cross.

The latch clicked. Light streamed briefly into the farm’s one-roomed cottage and then all was plunged into dimness as the door closed.

***

Agnes sat, patiently waiting for Gwenn to return. She thought about her daughter-in-law.

Agnes no longer had the vigour of her youth and until Gwenn had arrived at Sword Point, she had been lonely. She thought she was dying. Unlike Gwenn, who had her life in front of her, Agnes was not afraid of death. But Gwenn’s arrival had given her something to live for. She liked Gwenn. Ned had proved himself a good judge of character when he chose her to be his wife. Agnes looked forward to meeting her grandchild. The Grim Reaper would come for her soon, but in the meantime she could fill her last days cobbling together some baby linen. Agnes had once sewed court dresses for a duchess, but this simple task was all her weakened eyes could manage now. While she waited for the final sleep to claim her, she would watch her grandchild grow and die content.

***

In the night, the Yorkshire dale had been refreshed with rain. Now the sun was climbing and the meadow grasses shone lush and green. Sheep ambled across the pastures below Sword Point, fluffy white blobs grazing on the rich grasses like slow-moving clouds drifting across a rain-washed sky. While the landscape was beautiful, the farm’s buildings and outhouses were not. They had not been maintained since Ned’s father had died. A mournful air of neglect hung over the place.

Having decided to rid herself of the statue and the evil that had dogged her for years, Gwenn hooked up her skirts and dashed along the pathway which ran between two wooden farm buildings. She stopped at the tall oak whose foreshortened shadow pointed up the hill, pausing only to twist the walnut base from the statue and thrust the pouch deep within a fork of the oak’s spreading roots. She had been quick to learn her way about Sword Point, and headed straight for the River Swale. As she passed the outhouse where Dancer had been hastily stabled, her horse greeted her with a friendly whinny, and such was Gwenn’s state of mind that the familiar sound set her heart thudding. Clutching the statue, she pressed on, working her way round the worm-eaten farm buildings and onto the track. Her mind was a confusion of fears and wishes.

Panting, she checked the path which cut across the dale to the river. It was empty. High in the blue heavens, so high she could not see them, skylarks sang. Closer to earth, a flock of lapwings tumbled into view, vying with each other in athletic, aerobatic displays. Gwenn hurried on, keeping the Stone Rose close to her breast. The mysterious horseman who had ridden in from Brittany could be a messenger from the Duchess as Agnes had suggested, but Gwenn did not think so. If the horseman was fair as an angel and as fierce as St Michael, he sounded very like de Roncier’s Viking captain.

Was he after the gem? Did all of Brittany know her secret? When Alan had questioned her about the Stone Rose, Gwenn suspected he knew. But he had left her with Agnes and the gemstone had remained in her keeping, and Gwenn had concluded that he knew nothing.

If only he had come back to visit her lately, she could have had it out with him. But she had not set eyes on him since he left for Richmond. His neglect was a clear signal of his lack of feeling for her. Agnes believed she should trust him. But Agnes was Alan’s aunt – she looked to see the best in her sister’s son. Gwenn stumbled towards the river. If only Alan was more like Ned, who was, even without the dubbing ceremony, more the perfect knight than any man she’d known.

A couple of bow shots ahead, Gwenn could see beeches and ash trees stretching over the Swale. She could hear the water brawling over the rocky bed as it surged through the dale towards the gully where the waterfall bubbled and frothed like so much brown ale.

Someone gave a shout, and she whirled round. A lone horseman on a great grey was cutting across the pasture; the horse’s hoofs were gouging scoops of emerald turf and throwing them high in the air.

Her mouth went dry. It was not Firebrand, but at this distance Gwenn was unable to make out whether the horseman was fair or dark. Sunlight sparkled on a shiny helmet. Her heart dropped to her belly. A long, fair beard tumbled across a wide, mail-clad chest and the canon’s words came back to her. Fair as an angel and fierce as St Michael.

Stricken with panic, she whirled towards the river, desperate for somewhere to hide, but she would never reach the beech trees in time. She could not outrun that brute of a horse. She halted, turned, and stood her ground. The worst the Viking could do was kill her, and death no longer frightened her, for out of her spinning thoughts one single strand stood stark and clear. The worst had already happened...

Since Gwenn’s arrival, Agnes had expressed a desire to live out the first few days of her grief quietly. Apart from Gwenn’s lonely dawn rides, they had only left the farm to go to Easby village, where they had conversed with the White Canons, no one else. To Gwenn’s knowledge, the only person in Richmond to know she was lodged at Sword Point was Alan; and the only way the Norseman could have found her so quickly after seeing the White Canon was if Alan had betrayed her. Alan must have betrayed her. Set against this, nothing was important; not her life, not even – may God forgive her – the life of the babe in her belly. Gwenn had wanted to trust Alan, had wanted him to be an honourable man. So much for her dreams. She loved a ruthless bastard of a man and he had betrayed her.

Would the Norseman torture her to find out where she had put the gemstone? Would he share the proceeds with Alan?

The horse, a stallion, thundered up to her. The Viking hauled on his reins, and the beast came to a shuddering halt. Hot, horsey breath fanned her face.

‘Well met, Mistress Fletcher,’ Otto Malait flung himself to the ground and dived at her throat. ‘I’ve been scouring all England for you.’

***

Outside Sword Point Farm, Alan dismounted gingerly, groaning in relief when his feet touched firm ground. He had a hangover, and every step of the road from Richmond had set a hammer beating on the anvil of his brain.

He tethered Firebrand to a bay tree in his aunt’s overgrown herb garden. The door was ajar. He rapped his knuckles on it, and the noise made him flinch. His nerves were shredded that morning, and he only had himself to blame. He had run into old drinking companions the evening before and had been drawn into lengthy reminiscences around the forge with his friends and his stepfather. He and Ivon were fully reconciled, and during the course of the evening, much ale had been drunk, and much wine. ‘It’s the combination that’s the killer,’ Alan muttered to himself, angry at his own stupidity.

There was no response from the farmhouse. Agnes was growing deaf. Wincing, Alan knocked once more, and raised his voice, ‘Agnes? Gwenn?’ His throat was as gritty as a mason’s file.

‘In here, Alan. Come straight in.’

Agnes was climbing painstakingly down the stairs from the loft. Alan helped her down the last few rungs. ‘I thought you moved your bed downstairs because you find the stairs a trial.’

Agnes smiled. ‘I do find them a trial.’

Alan led his aunt to the trestle and pulled out a bench for her. ‘You should ask Gwenn if you need something down from the loft. Where is she?’

‘Gone to the river. Didn’t you spot her from the road?’

‘No.’ Alan rubbed sore eyes. ‘I can hardly see out this morning.’

‘Good night, was it, nephew?’

Alan groaned, sank onto the bench, and closed his eyes.

‘Alan, I think you should go and see if Gwenn is safe.’

Weary grey eyes peered past hooded lids. ‘Why shouldn’t Gwenn be safe? She’s only gone to the river.’

‘No, Alan. I think you should go. Something has happened. It’s connected with that blessed statue. She rushed in here talking about messengers from Normandy.’

Her nephew’s head shot up. ‘Messengers from Normandy? Who?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

Alan caught her wrist. ‘Think, Aunt, exactly what did she say?’

‘A White Canon told her a horseman rode in from Dieppe, someone she knew in Vannes. He has been asking questions. Gwenn took the figurine to the river and... Alan?’

The door cracked against its frame, and seeing that she was speaking to an empty room, Agnes shook her head and smiled.

Charging into the yard, Alan remembered his sword. In his befuddled state that morning, he had jammed it under his pack at the back of the saddle. Cursing the few seconds’ delay, he dragged it out, buckled it into place, and flung himself on Firebrand. The farmhouse was surrounded with a split-rail fence to keep the White Canons’ sheep from the cottage garden, and though it was down in places, his route was barred by a gate. Alan dug in his spurs. The courser cleared the gate with ease, and then they were galloping over Swaledale’s springy turf, noses pointed to the river.

The greensward sloped gently away from them. At the bottom, in front of the trees, two figures were struggling. A hulking great warhorse with its reins slack about its head placidly cropped the grass. It was the horse that betrayed to Alan the identity of the mysterious visitor from Normandy. The animal was past its best, a lanky grey, long in the bone, and he recognised it. Otto Malait favoured that horse.

Alan spurred Firebrand and was carried down the hill faster than the wind. Of all people, he wished it were not Otto Malait.

He was almost there, and not a heartbeat too soon, for the Viking’s fingers were a vice round Gwenn’s throat. Her face was puce. She must have knocked Malait’s helmet off, for it lay on the grass, next to the Stone Rose which had been separated from its stand. The wooden shards lay in the grass at Gwenn’s feet. The drawstring pouch was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where is it, girl?’ Otto shook her, easing his grip on her throat to allow her to speak. She hung like a child’s rag doll from his giant’s hands, and let out a groan. Otto renewed his grip, and weakly she tried to free herself.

Alan wanted to cry out, to shriek at Malait to release her, but he urged Firebrand on and bit on his tongue. Malait had his back to him and did not appear to have heard him. The Norseman was wearing a mail tunic, but his arms were unprotected. Alan had the element of surprise on his side, and he must make the most of it, for if he did not, Malait would not scruple at holding Gwenn as a hostage against him.

Thanking God that all his wits did not appear to have been drowned in last night’s ale, Alan gripped his sword and bent low over his saddle. If he could charge past the Norseman and make a pass as he did so... It was a coward’s strike. It was not the sort of blow that an honourable man would make, but what choice did he have?

He was almost on them, and with a sick sense of dread he saw Gwenn’s hands go slack and her arms swing loose at her sides. Gwenn had lost consciousness. Legs hugging Firebrand’s barrel chest, Alan pointed his sword. A dozen yards to go... nine... six... three...

At the last moment, Otto started, and swung round. The pale eyes bulged. He dropped Gwenn and leaped sideways, but he was not fleet enough and Alan’s sword caught him a glancing blow on his unmailed arm. Wheeling Firebrand round, Alan did not pause to let him recover, but charged again. Otto snatched out his sword and backed to where Gwenn lay senseless on the grass.

Terror tugged Alan’s entrails. ‘No! Leave her!’

Otto’s grin was lost in his beard. ‘Come off your high horse and fight me on equal terms, le Bret.’ Standing over the unconscious girl, Otto delivered a bruising kick to her buttocks. She made a choking sound in her throat. ‘Oh, listen, le Bret,’ he declared in tones of amazement, ‘she’s breathing. But not, I think, for much longer.’ He bent over her.

‘You bastard!’ Alan swung his leg over Firebrand’s neck so as to avoid making his opponent a present of his back, and jumped. His insides were liquid with fear for Gwenn. ‘I’m down! Let her alone. Has she told you where it is?’

Otto straightened. The look on his face told Alan she had not.

‘If you kill her, you’ll never find it,’ Alan warned him, urgently.

‘She’s not told you?’

‘Me?’ Alan could not keep the bitterness from his tone. ‘When I’ve already tried to steal it? Do you really think she’d trust a mercenary?’

The two men circled each other. ‘Never thought I’d see you lose colour over a wench, le Bret,’ Otto said. ‘Or is it the thought of losing her riches?’

On the grass, Gwenn coughed, and her limbs made a tentative movement. She would have to recover unaided, for Alan’s hands were fully occupied with the Norseman. Praying that Malait’s mount would not trample her, Alan tried to clear his wine-fuddled mind. Firebrand could be relied on never to step on a human body; an intelligent horse would never harm anyone without good reason. But Malait’s horse? Alan could not say what it would do.

Alan tried to focus his blurred thoughts. Gwenn must have removed the gem from the statue before Malait had found her. If Alan could distract him while she came to her senses, she might be able to mount Firebrand and ride to the White Canons for help.

Otto’s sword sparked in the sun. Alan warded it off. The blow jarred his arm and set off ringing noises in his head, but his fighting reflexes took over and his blood surged through his veins. Despite the ringing noises, he was still in command of himself. He could fight.

Otto skipped back and thrust almost at once. Again, Alan parried the blow, but this thrust when he met it sent him reeling. The Norseman’s greater bulk gave tremendous force to his blows.

Alan’s sword flashed, Otto bounced backwards, grinning, and the stroke went wide. Otto lunged, Alan’s wine-soused feet were slow to respond, and Viking steel streaked silver fire across his chest.

‘Shit!’ There was a diagonal slash across Alan’s tunic. His skin stung, but the wound was not serious. An inch closer, however... If he got out of this in one piece, he’d never drink again.

Warily, he edged round, trying to keep Gwenn at his back and Otto before him. He heard her moan, and closed his ears to her distress. He must keep his mind on his opponent.

‘What’s amiss, le Bret, afraid I’ll disembowel your wench?’ Otto made a half-hearted pass which Alan deflected with ease. The Norseman struck again with more determination. Steel crashed, and a moment later Alan’s sword flew out and nicked a lock from the Norseman’s straggling beard.

Dancing backwards, the pale eyes fired. ‘Waking up at last? Good. You were fighting like a woman.’ Otto began his attack in earnest, and Alan had no thought for anything but his own survival.

Consciousness came back to Gwenn in uneasy stages. Her first thought was that the Viking had screwed her head from her shoulders. Her next was that her neck must be black with bruises, for the air burned hot as molten lead as it flowed down her crushed throat. Her starved lungs ached; and though she was greedy for air, pain dictated that she must ration it and breathe slowly. She was lying on dew-damp grass. As her battered senses rallied, her ears sharpened. Someone was panting. There was a crash, a grunt. More hard breathing. A groan.

She lifted leaden eyelids and pushed herself to her elbows. Dizzyingly, the meadow rolled and dipped, a great green sea of grass. A wave of nausea rushed to meet her. Pushing it aside, she saw two men. The blond one made her heart sink, but on seeing the dark, slighter form, it bounded in her breast. Alan! Her voice was disconnected, which was a blessing, she might have distracted him, and she could see he was fighting for his life. She tried to sit up. The meadow heaved and rocked. She didn’t want to watch, but her eyes were drawn as though by a string to the deadly duel. They had sprung apart for a few moments to draw breath.

Alan looked like death. His face had a bruised, exhausted look to it, his eyes were strained, his skin drawn tight across his cheekbones. He looked... ill. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, impatiently, he lifted his arm and sleeved it away. Where was Alan’s gambeson? He was not dressed for combat, being clad in a simple blue tunic she had not seen before.

The Viking, though breathing hard, was flushed with the thrill of the fight. His eyes looked ready to pop from their sockets. His chest was protected with a sleeveless mail tunic. He was ready for battle and relishing every moment. Alan was neither ready, nor relishing it.

While she steadied her rocking senses, Gwenn wondered what Alan was fighting for. For her? Or was he risking himself for the diamond? Alan’s woollen tunic had a slash across it – sight of the red tinge on the cut edges made her blood run cold. Either way, it made no difference, she wanted him to live. ‘God protect him,’ she murmured, climbing shakily to her knees. With no conscious stratagem in mind, she hauled herself upright and staggered towards the horses.

‘Yes, Gwenn!’ Alan wasted precious time to shout at her. ‘Ride! Ride for the abbey!’

Seeing his opponent momentarily diverted, Otto closed in, slashing wildly. The two men fell together. Swords cut and hacked. One of them cried out. Gwenn’s breath froze, but it was the Viking who broke away, blood streaking from under his arm. She breathed again.

‘The horses, Gwenn! Move!’

Alan’s shriek of desperation set her legs moving like a puppet’s. She reached the Norseman’s bony stallion first. Grazing, with his head down, the horse had lost the power to terrify. Taking the reins, she looked up at the high warrior’s saddle. The Viking’s dreadful axe hung on a thong from the pommel. Gwenn hesitated. Alan had his back to her. He was keeping the Viking from reaching her, hair tumbled about his head and dark with sweat. She set her foot in the stirrup. She took it out again. She couldn’t go. It wasn’t possible.

‘Go!’

He wasn’t looking at her, but she shook her head. It was no good. She couldn’t leave him facing that brute.

‘For God’s sake, Gwenn! I can’t hold him much longer.’

And then the worst happened. While sending her an anguished look, Alan slipped on the meadow grass and went down at her feet. His skull hit the ground with a sickening thud. After a moment when time seemed to stand still, he opened his eyes, and looked an unmistakable apology at her. Gwenn’s heart turned over. Blindly she moved towards him. His lips framed one word. ‘Gwenn.’ And then his eyes closed and his head lolled to one side.

The Viking hugged his wounded arm close to his chest, blood dripped down his sleeve. Glancing disinterestedly at Gwenn, he kicked Alan’s sword well out of his reach. He stooped over Alan and his sword lifted...

Gwenn retreated, backing up against the stallion. Her breath was coming in short, jerky gasps. Sliding her fingers along the saddle horn, she grabbed the handle of the barbaric axe and wrenched it towards her. The thong snapped. She had to act quickly. She needed two hands to lift the axe, but lift it she did, raising it above her head. A strand of fine blond hair waved in the breeze as the Viking bowed over Alan, and she wished she had not noticed it. It made the monster human, made it impossible for her to kill him. But she must kill him, she must, and swiftly. The axe-head glinted in the sunlight. Gwenn quivered to her core. She had never killed a man, she couldn’t kill a man, but she had to kill this one, because if she didn’t he would butcher Alan, and then he would turn on her, though that last scarcely mattered.

The Norseman’s neck was white and glistening with sweat. She raised the axe. She sent it chopping down, but with a disgusted moan she twisted it at the last second, so the flat of the blade and not the edge cracked against his skull. He grunted softly and dropped like a stone, right over Alan.

The axe fell to the grass. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to kill him, but God grant she had knocked him into the next century. She had bought a little time.

Her knees softened. She fell to the ground, heaved the Viking off Alan, and shook Alan. ‘Alan?’ Alan’s head rolled. Keeping it steady, she gripped his arm. ‘Alan? Wake up!’ His cheeks were grey, and his lips pale. ‘Alan.’ Not a movement. She shook him less gently. ‘Alan! Oh, God, not Alan too. Please, God, not Alan.’

She drew his head onto her knees. Blood. Her pulse pounded. His blood was everywhere. Tenderly parting the sweat-streaked hair, she found its source, a great gash in his skull. He had cracked his head on a stone when he fell. Glancing at the rich turf, she found the culprit at once. The Stone Rose smiled innocently up at her from the spot where a moment ago Alan’s head had lain. The pink granite bore telltale traces of blood.

Cold as ice, she scrabbled for his pulse and failed to find it. She was seized with the most hideous conviction. The statue had killed Alan, as it killed everyone she ever loved. The Stone Rose had killed Alan. In a moment she became a madwoman. ‘No! No! You shall not have him! You shall not. Wake up, Alan. I need you! You can’t die, you’re a devil, and devils don’t die!’

Frenzied, raging, she pushed him off her knees, pressing her head to the torn tunic to hear his heartbeat. But her ears were filled with the frantic drumming of her own racing heart. Wildly, she clutched his shoulders, but he lay on the meadow like a corpse. ‘Alan? Alan?’ She pressed her face against the bloody tunic. ‘Alan,’ she murmured into the warmth of his chest, ‘I need you. Don’t leave me.’

Alan coughed, and drew in a convulsive lungful of air.

Gwenn flew upright. The grey eyes were open and focused on her. Shuddering, she touched his cheek. His sinful mouth drew up at one side. He started, shot up, glanced at the prone figure and groped for his sword. ‘Malait?’

‘Out cold,’ Gwenn said, lips curving with joy. He was alive. Whole, and alive.

Alan nudged the motionless body, relaxed, and sat back on his haunches. He rubbed the back of his head. ‘I’m either dreaming, or dead. You’d never look at me like that if I were alive. Isn’t that a look a knight’s daughter ought to reserve for her Perfect Knight? I must be dead.’

‘No,’ Gwenn bit her lip to dim her smile, she knew it was brilliant, ‘you’re not dead. Though for a moment I feared you were.’

A dark brow arched. ‘Feared?’

‘Aye. I thought the statue had claimed you, as it claims everyone I love.’

‘Love?’ Alan’s strong voice was heartrendingly uncertain. He caught her chin in a fierce grip. ‘You love me?’

She had no words, but she nodded. His eyes were that beautiful dove-grey, as they had been that morning after they had first made love.

‘Me? A landless mercenary? A bastard?’

‘That last is my title too,’ she reminded him shakily.

He gave Gwenn another of those dear, crooked smiles, and drew her to him. ‘Oh, God.’ He grimaced. ‘My head.’

Gwenn drew back. He had her hand in a bruising grip, but she made no complaint.

‘What hit me?’

‘Our Lady.’

‘Our Lady?’ It was a moment before he caught up with her. ‘Oh, you mean that cursed statue.’

‘Cursed is the right word. It is cursed. She has killed so many, and I thought she’d done for you too. I was going to hurl it into the river when he,’ she indicated Otto, ‘came upon me.’

Alan grunted, and released her. Turning the Viking onto his back, he examined him. ‘Did you hit him?’

‘Aye, with the flat of his axe.’

Alan frowned, and regarded her sombrely. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Dead? Merciful Heaven, you mean I–?’

‘I doubt it was your blow. That could only have stunned him. It was this.’ He pointed at the sticky bloodstain darkening the Norseman’s left sleeve. ‘I must have hit an artery. He bled to death.’

Staggering to his feet, Alan wiped his sword on the Viking’s chausses. Catching Gwenn’s gaze on him and reading censure in it, he caught his bottom lip. ‘You think me callous? You mustn’t delude yourself about me. I’m not like your Ned.’

Gwenn smiled. ‘I know.’ Then, seeing Alan was white as whey and swaying on his feet, she took his arm. ‘What do we do about him?’ She pointed at Otto’s body.

‘Ride to the abbey and inform the White Canons what has happened on their land. They’ll help us deal with it.’

‘Come on, then. To the abbey it is. Let me help you mount.’

Alan’s hand went around her waist. ‘Ride with me? Please?’

‘Yes.’

***

The sun was at its height by the time Alan and Gwenn had finished with their explanations and the body had been brought from the riverbank. For the time being they were free to return to Sword Point, though they had both sworn to attend the next court session at the castle, where they would have to repeat their explanations at a formal enquiry held by the sheriff.

Alan held Gwenn firmly in one hand, the other was hooked round Firebrand’s reins. On foot, they walked under the arch in the porter’s lodge and started up the hill.

‘That’s over, for a while anyway,’ Alan said.

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think we need concern ourselves with the inquest. Malait’s a stranger here, and though I’ve been away, the people here trust me.’ Alan shot Gwenn a sideways glance. ‘I expect it surprises you to hear that people trust me.’

‘It doesn’t surprise me.’ And it didn’t, not any more. That morning, in a moment of blind panic, when Gwenn had seen Malait charging towards her and hadn’t time to think, she had mistrusted him. But now she was calm and could see clearly. She could trust Alan.

‘No? Gwenn,’ Alan swallowed and, keeping his gaze on the road, spoke in a rapid undertone, ‘you saw me at my lowest at Locmariaquer. I’d never tried to steal anything before, or since.’

‘Alan, you don’t have to tell me that. I know that, now.’

Alan’s head came up, and his eyes lit up. ‘You do?’

Gwenn nodded, conscious of a warm upsurge of happiness. ‘I love you, Alan.’

His hand gripped hers like a vice. ‘Gwenn, can you see yourself living above the forge in Richmond?’

‘I can, if you are there.’

‘I’ll never be one of your chivalrous knights.’

‘I know. You don’t have a chivalrous bone in your body,’ Gwenn laughed, on a note of pure delight, and flung her arms about his waist to hug him. ‘But you are alive, Alan, and I love you. And that is what counts.’

Alan pushed her back against the whorled bark of an oak, threw Firebrand’s reins over a branch, and pressed his body to hers. He put his hands either side of her face. In expectation of his kiss, Gwenn closed her eyes.

He kept her waiting. ‘I’ve no land,’ he said, lips so near Gwenn’s she could feel the heat of them. ‘I work to live. If we stay in England, it will be hard. I cannot be a mercenary in England. I’ve a mind to apprentice myself to my stepfather and learn a different trade.’

She opened her eyes and smiled. ‘You’ll make the most ancient and unlikely apprentice in Christendom.’

‘Ivon taught me much as a lad. I’ll learn the rest quickly.’

‘I’m sure of it.’ His lips moved to hers.

She held him off. ‘Wait. Alan, it’s best if you know everything. My grandmother did have a gemstone, and I have it.’ Gwenn explained it all, and when she had done, Alan’s breath had stopped. He stroked back a strand of her hair. ‘Did you hear me, Alan? I’ve money and the gem–’

She got no further. With an inarticulate murmur, Alan buried his face in her hair. ‘Thank God,’ he said, in a muffled voice. ‘At last I believe you trust me.’