Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Unmoved, Marie shook her cane at him. ‘You have your father’s lands. Sweet Jesu, if it weren’t for the fact that I birthed you myself, I’d wonder sometimes whose son you were. You’ve less brains than a sheep. I’ve told you, François, you’ll never have to defer to St Clair on the de Wirce lands. They don’t have a case to answer. We’ve held uncontested title for thirty years. All I’m asking you to do is not to harm Izabel’s family. And I want that statue.’

‘I’d prefer to cut my way out of this mess cleanly. Getting the statue will slow things down, it will cause unnecessary complications’

‘So? Let it.’ Marie’s thin lips curved. ‘Counts can afford complications.’

Reluctantly, François capitulated. There would be no peace in his castle until his mother had Andaine’s statue. ‘Very well. If it pleases you, you shall have it. But I still intend pushing them out of Vannes.’

‘My thanks.’ The black eyes that stared past the proud nose were unwavering. ‘If you feel you must push the Herevis out, then I’ll not try to sway you, but I want your sworn oath they’ll come to no harm.’

‘Very well, ma mère. I’ll not touch a hair on their heads. I’ll swear it on Father’s tomb if necessary, but if the day ever dawns when St Clair marries Yolande Herevi, I shall consider that vow void.’

Marie allowed a complacent smile to soften the lines on her face. ‘There’s not the remotest possibility of St Clair marrying Yolande Herevi. I told you, knights don’t marry their concubines. Even St Clair wouldn’t stoop so low. Will you get the statue tomorrow?’

François held down a sigh. ‘Don’t bleat. If the gem is there, it’s as good as in your grasp.’

The thin mouth was prim again. ‘It’s my mother’s statue of Our Lady, that I want, François. The jewel is incidental.’

François was not deceived, though he knew better than to admit it. His mother was evening up old scores.

Someone tapped on the door which led via the stairwell to the main hall below. Mother and son exchanged conspiratorial glances. The door was ajar and the flickering torchlight illuminated the padded leather gambeson of a mercenary captain. Alan le Bret was waiting to see his lord.

‘Damn! How much he has heard?’ François muttered. He had never found Alan le Bret an easy man to read. He raised his voice. ‘What is it, Captain?’

‘A word only, mon seigneur, no more.’ On entering, Alan le Bret sketched a graceful bow in Countess Marie’s direction. ‘My apologies, madame, for interrupting you.’

The man has removed his sword, François noted resentfully. He was astonished to see his mother respond to the mercenary’s careless courtesy, even going so far as to hold out her hand to him. ‘Get on with it, le Bret,’ he snapped.

Serene now she had got her way, Marie tapped slowly across the boards. ‘I’ll take my leave, François, I’m fatigued. Good night to you both.’

François, not wishing his manners to be put in the shade by an ignorant mercenary, bowed grudgingly in his mother’s direction. ‘Good night, madame.’

Chapter Five

Gwenn woke abruptly. Her linen nightgown was drenched with sweat, for in her dreams she had been reliving the nightmare chase through the streets. She lifted her thick plait of hair from the back of her neck, grateful that her grandmother had kept a candle lighted in their bedchamber. It was a luxury she usually denied them on the grounds of expense.

Gwenn shifted in her narrow cot, half afraid to recapture sleep, for that way lay terror. Even now her heart was pumping. She pressed hot, tear-stained cheeks into her bolster to try and cool them, trying to move as little as possible in the hope that her grandmother would think she was asleep. Gwenn knew Izabel had been upset by her weeping, and did not want her to know she was wakeful. Once, with a rare flash of humour, her grandmother had said that Gwenn slept so soundly she would sleep through the Last Judgement. But not tonight.

There had not been a precise moment when Gwenn had realised that her mother’s relationship with Sir Jean was unorthodox. Realisation had come in slow stages. Izabel had guarded her closely, almost jealously, not permitting her to mix with other girls in the town, and this, Gwenn now realised, had kept her unaware of the townfolk’s hostility for much longer than would otherwise have been the case. At the time, Gwenn had assumed that Izabel disapproved of the other girls, had thought them not worthy friends for her. Then had dawned the day when, like today, she had escaped for a couple of hours on her own. She had befriended Lucia. Lucia lived in the house opposite and they had played happily until Lucia’s mother had appeared and dragged her daughter away. And the next time Gwenn had seen her playmate, and had smiled at her, Lucia had looked at her with glassy eyes and turned her face aside. There had been other, similar, incidents, which Gwenn had never liked to examine too closely, but the violence that had flared up today and the consequent chase through the streets forced her to face it squarely. Gwenn had spoken to her mother, and Yolande had at last admitted that she was St Clair’s mistress. She had admitted that she and her family were outcasts. They were undesirable, and were reviled more than the lepers that begged for alms at the town gates, for the lepers were given pity at least. Gwenn had not seen much pity in the eyes of the mob that had hounded her and Raymond through the streets. The tears welled again.

Izabel thought her granddaughter was safely asleep. Hoisting herself out of bed, the old woman set the candle in the middle of the floor and crept to the stool in front of her mirror. A gigantic, misshapen shadow travelled with her across the limewashed plaster walls. The candle flame, nudged by draughts drifting in through chinks round window and door, made the shadow jerk and twitch as though it was palsied. Izabel cocked her head to one side and listened. All was silent, both inside the house and out.

On hearing Izabel rise from her pallet, Gwenn stayed quiet, unconsciously waiting for the familiar grating sound which would signify that the chamber pot was being pulled out from under Izabel’s bed. Moments later, when the scraping sound did not come, Gwenn peered across the room. What was her grandmother doing?

Izabel was quietly clearing her brush and hairpins from the top of her coffer. With both hands on the lid of the chest, she took a deep breath and heaved. The trunk opened reluctantly, for Izabel’s arms were losing their strength and the coffer had been hewn from solid oak. The old woman was short of wind by the time the lid was resting back against the wall. She fished about inside, and drew out some cloth. She began to hum softly, and then ceased abruptly, seeming to wink at the dusk-shrouded figure that was her reflection in the mirror. ‘I’m putting my house in order,’ Izabel murmured and smoothed out the cloth.

What was her grandmother doing?

The piece of cloth was sailcloth, which Izabel had obtained from a fisherman on one of the quays. Pushing stiffly to her feet, she hobbled to the alcove and picked up her icon.

Gwenn kept very still.

‘This,’ her grandmother muttered with a sidelong glance at Gwenn’s pallet, ‘will be my legacy to you, Gwenn. This will keep you safe. Raymond does not need it. Boys are tough. They look after themselves. It’s the girls who are defenceless, left to suffer...’ The old woman blinked away a tear. ‘If only I’d told your mother about the gemstone sooner. She need never have become St Clair’s mistress, need never have sold her soul. I failed her, but I shall put it right, I shall not fail you.’ She wrapped the statue in the sailcloth.

Miserable but burning with curiosity, Gwenn could contain herself no longer. She pushed back her covers and sat up. ‘Grandmama, what are you mumbling about?’

‘Gwenn! You’re awake!’

Gwenn rubbed eyes that were hot and puffy with too much crying. ‘Aye. What is it, Grandmama? Are you unwell?’

‘My thanks, Gwenn, but I am quite well.’ Dropping her burden in the coffer, Izabel closed the lid. She crossed the chamber and levered herself onto the edge of Gwenn’s mattress. Gwenn heard her joints creak. ‘It is you I’m concerned about. Do you feel better?’

Dipping her head, Gwenn lied. ‘Yes. I’m sorry I cried. I hope I didn’t upset you, Grandmama.’

Her grandmother patted her hand. ‘It was an unnerving experience.’

‘Grandmama, you don’t understand. I was frightened by the mob – actually, I was terrified out of my wits – but it was the hatred in their voices when they cursed Mama that shook me most. I had my suspicions we lived under some sort of a cloud, but I had no idea that most of Vannes disliked us so intensely. Father Mark has always been kind to us, and I know Mikael Brasher likes Raymond. Raymond is always talking about Duke’s Tavern.’

‘But you did have suspicions?’

‘Aye. I’ve read about liaisons like Mother’s and Sir Jean’s with Raymond. Our tutor explained–’

‘I knew Yolande was making a mistake to have you sit in on Raymond’s lessons!’ Izabel said, scandalised. ‘No good ever came of a girl learning to read and write! I shall have it stopped at once. I should have thought Father Mark of all people would know better than to corrupt a young girl. Holy Mother, what have you been reading?’

Gwenn smiled and took her grandmother’s hand. She loved Izabel deeply, but she could not resist teasing her. ‘The Bible, Grandmama.’

‘The Bible? You can read Latin?’

‘Father Mark says I’m a better student than Raymond.’

‘Is the Bible all you have read?’ Izabel demanded, frowning. In her mind it was neither necessary nor sensible to teach a girl to read. Few enough men had that skill, and she feared that outlandish ideas might warp her impressionable granddaughter’s mind. The scandal of Heloise and her teacher Abelard loomed like a dreadful warning in the old woman’s mind.

‘I’ve read other writings too, Grandmama,’ Gwenn said. Izabel made a clucking sound with her tongue. Swallowing down a giggle, Gwenn could not resist adding, ‘But it was the Bible that taught me about fornication and adultery.’

‘That’s enough, Gwenn!’ Izabel clapped her hands over her ears. ‘Enough!’

‘My apologies, Grandmama. What I’m trying to tell you is that I knew about mother being a concub–’

‘Don’t say that word.’ The old woman stopped Gwenn’s mouth with her palm. ‘We must pray that God in His infinite mercy will forgive your mother.’

‘You sound as though you doubt that, Grandmama.’

Silence.

‘Grandmama?’ Conscious of a disrespectful desire to shake her grandmother, Gwenn laced her fingers tightly together and lowered her voice to a whisper, for she did not want her mother disturbed. ‘Grandmama, I would like to understand something.’

‘Mmm?’

‘Why is it us they turn on?’

‘Us?’

‘The women of the family.’

‘They were after Raymond, too,’ Izabel pointed out.

‘Aye, but only because he came to my aid. It was me they were really after. I’ve noticed this before, Grandmama. People tolerate Raymond far more than they do you or me. And they seem to like Sir Jean. But when it’s you or me, or Mama...’

‘Your mother is a grievous sinner and will not repent.’

‘And she deserves to be reviled? Along with you and me, and no doubt Katarin too when she’s grown? No, Grandmama, I refuse to accept that. We’re all sinners. Mama hasn’t done more wrong than anyone else. She’s no more wicked than Sir Jean. All anyone has to do is look at the way she and my f...Sir Jean care about each other. They love each other. They are faithful to each other. I don’t see what difference there is between them and all the other married people in Vannes. It’s sheer hypocrisy.’

‘But, Gwenn–’

‘In fact, Grandmama,’ Gwenn ploughed on, ‘my parents are better than most. They are honest sinners. Did you know, for example, that Pierre, the herbalist down the street, is having a clandestine affair and his wife, poor love, knows nothing?’

‘I never pay any heed to the doings of the common townsfolk,’ Izabel said, loftily. ‘Honest sinners, indeed. What will you think of next? Clearly, this tutoring will have to stop.’

‘Pierre is an adulterer, Grandmama. Yet I can’t see him being lynched for his sins.’

‘It has been known,’ Izabel murmured.

‘Grandmama, I’m trying to understand. Why do they want us out of Vannes? Why do they hate us so? They condone Pierre’s adultery – can’t they see the good in Mama’s relationship with Sir Jean?’

Izabel pressed her granddaughter’s hand, but held to her litany. ‘She’s a sinner, a sinner in the eyes of Holy Church. And I am to blame.’

‘No, Grandmama.’

‘Do you mind what your mother has made you?’ Izabel asked.

Gwenn jerked her head aside and stared mutely at the flickering candle.

For Izabel that was response enough. ‘Do you care that every day Yolande stays with St Clair she puts her immortal soul at risk?’

‘I wish...’ Gwenn hesitated. ‘I wish you and Mama had trusted me enough to confide in me.’

‘Yolande wanted to tell you, but I thought you too young.’

Gwenn shoved a thick skein of hair from her face. ‘But not too young to lie to?’

‘Lie? I thought only to protect you, child.’

‘Too much protection can be dangerous,’ Gwenn said, astutely. ‘I wish you hadn’t protected me. I’d far rather have been trusted with the truth.’ She hung her head and plucked at her bedcover. ‘Grandmama?’

‘Mmm?’

‘There’s something I’ve never been clear about. And I’m curious. I...I’d like you to explain it.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘How is it that a woman of your...er...strong religious principles elected to remain with Mother after...after...she had become St Clair’s mistress? I would have thought you’d have left her, perhaps have become a nun. Didn’t you want to become a nun?’

An ominous silence fell, giving Gwenn time to regret her curiosity. ‘I’m sorry, Grandmama. Forget I ever asked. It was impertinent of me.’

‘It was,’ her grandmother agreed. ‘But since you have asked, I’ll try and answer you. Naturally, I never approved of your mother’s relations with St Clair. And she so young when it started. She was your age, you know.’

‘She was thirteen?’ Girls were often wed at that age, but Gwenn let that pass.

Her grandmother nodded sadly. Gwenn’s hair had flopped forwards again and tenderly her grandmother looped it behind her ear. ‘Thirteen. We had taken refuge in St Anne’s convent, but when Yolande was thirteen, we were cast out into the world. Yolande thought we’d not a clipped penny between us.’

‘A convent cast you out? Why, Grandmama? Why were you cast out into the world? What about your husband?’

‘He died before Yolande was born.’

Something in her grandmother’s voice warned Gwenn not to pursue that line of questioning. In the past, whenever Gwenn had asked about Yolande’s childhood, she had come up against a wall of silence. But tonight, Izabel seemed disposed to talk. Greedy for anything which would reveal more about her mother and her grandmother’s background, Gwenn felt her way step by tentative step. ‘What about your parents?’

No answer. Her grandmother was as motionless as a menhir. Gwenn tried again. ‘Where were they? Were they dead that you were lodged in a convent?’

‘I never think of those times, Gwenn.’

Gwenn grimaced; that solid wall again.

‘It’s too painful,’ Izabel went on. ‘Besides, I was ill. I...I had a fever as I recall, and was out of my mind. Yolande went to beg for food. She met St Clair, and the rest you know.’

‘They fell in love.’ Gwenn sighed, wondering how to wheedle more out of her grandmother. ‘He lifted her out of the gutter. It must have been very romantic!’

‘Romantic?’ Izabel laughed harshly. ‘It was nothing of the kind. Your mother sacrificed herself so she could look after me. And when I had recovered and realised what she had done, it was too late. She was a fallen woman.’ If only I had told Yolande about the jewel, if only...’

‘You said Mama did it for you,’ Gwenn reminded her.

‘Aye. She did it for me. She’s immoral, but she is my daughter, and that’s a strong bond, as you might discover if you ever have a daughter of your own. I love her, whatever I might think of her morals. Sometimes I can see my Gwionn shining through her expression. She’s all I have of him, and...’ Izabel gave her shoulders a little shake and smiled through the darkness. ‘And I confess she’s been lucky with her chevalier. Jean St Clair may not be the wealthiest of men, but he does care for us in his way. He bought us this house. Yolande did what she could when she thought us destitute, but the price was high – her immortal soul.’

‘Grandmama, you can’t believe that.’ Gwenn brought her brows together.

‘I love Yolande.’

It did not escape Gwenn that Izabel had avoided her question. ‘I know. Grandmama–’

The latch clicked, and a tall, slight figure squeezed past the door and crept towards Gwenn’s pallet.

‘Raymond?’

The figure, cloaked in shadows, went down on its haunches. ‘The same,’ her brother’s voice confirmed. ‘I could hear you from the landing. What are you two whispering about?’

‘We haven’t woken Yolande, have we?’ Izabel asked.

‘She’s not asleep,’ Raymond said. ‘St Clair’s with her. They’re talking.’

Izabel held out an arm to her grandson. ‘Help me up, Raymond.’ She heaved herself upright. ‘My thanks. I’m glad you’ve come in, because I’ve an errand you can run in the morning.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Raymond answered equably, seating himself on the bed in the space recently vacated by Izabel. ‘Alright, little Gwenn?’ he asked, tweaking a lock of his sister’s hair.

‘Aye.’

Izabel reached her coffer. The hinges creaked as she grasped the lid.

‘Here, Grandmère, let me help you.’ Belatedly, Raymond sprang to his feet.

The lid fell back with a crack. ‘I’ve done it.’ Izabel was panting but triumphant, and holding a package.

‘You should have let me.’

‘Never mind, never mind. Raymond, listen. I’m going to give Our Lady to Gwenn. It’s for her and Katarin – for the girls. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Why in heaven’s name should I mind?’

Izabel looked momentarily nonplussed, as though her grandson’s question had put her off her stride. ‘No reason, no reason. Raymond, I want you to take this statue and hide it. Take it some miles from here, somewhere no one will think of searching.’

Raymond stared blankly at the parcel. ‘Why can’t you simply hand it over to Gwenn and have done, Grandmère? Why do I have to hide it?’

‘Because...because I want it out of here. As long as we have it with us, they’ll come looking for us. We’d not be left in peace. Without it, there’s a chance–’

‘They?’ Gwenn wondered. ‘Do you mean this Count de Roncier? I heard Sir Jean mention him, he’s behind this violence isn’t he?’

Izabel ignored her, murmuring, ‘We’re in danger while it’s here.’

‘Danger? What danger?’ Raymond asked. ‘What haven’t you told us, Grandmama?’

Izabel sank back onto Gwenn’s pallet, and fumbled for her granddaughter’s hand. ‘I can’t explain,’ she said, with a sharp glance at Raymond.

‘Grandmère, this is ridiculous. For Christ’s sake, what–?’

‘Raymond, I’ll thank you not to swear,’ Izabel said primly. ‘Will you help me or not?’

‘It must be some silly women’s secret,’ Raymond said, patronisingly, and when he saw a guilty spasm twist his grandmother’s face, he laughed. ‘I knew it!’

‘Raymond...’ Izabel’s voice was choked.

‘Oh, keep your secrets,’ he said, carelessly. ‘Relax, Grandmère, I’ll do as you ask. But I don’t see–’

Izabel waved her arms at him. ‘You’re not expected to see. Just take it, and hide it, and be sure you tell Gwenn where to find it. Remember, I’m giving it to her, not to you. It belongs to her. You’ll do that for me? At first light, mind?’

Raymond had intended going out before dawn in any case, for he had clandestine pleasures to pursue. He would not have to go out of his way to please his grandmother. ‘Yes, yes.’

‘Bless you, Raymond.’ Izabel yawned ostentatiously. ‘It is very late, my lad. I suggest we get what sleep we can, there’s not much of this night left.’

The young man recognised finality when he heard it in his grandmother’s voice and padded softly to the door. ‘Good night, Grandmère, goodnight, Gwenn.’

The latch rattled and Raymond was gone.

‘Men!’ Izabel muttered softly. ‘They’re all the same. We’ve aroused his curiosity now, my girl.’

‘Have we?’

‘He’ll be back in the morning, pestering us with questions. Never mind. He’s not as bad as most of them.’

‘You don’t like men much, do you, Grandmama?’

Izabel chucked Gwenn under the chin. ‘I don’t hate them all. There was one once,’ her voice went soft and dreamy, ‘but now I can’t even see his face.’ She caught her breath, and finished briskly. ‘That was long before you were born. Past history, my dear.’

‘Tell me about him,’ Gwenn urged, not feeling at all sleepy. ‘Was it Gwionn, the man you married?’ Izabel tensed, and Gwenn knew by grandmother’s posture that the barriers were in place again.

‘No. Some wounds never heal.’ A firm hand was placed on Gwenn’s chest, and she was pushed onto her pillow. ‘Go to sleep, my dear. You need your rest.’

‘But, Grandmama–’

‘Sleep,’ Izabel insisted. ‘But remember, the Virgin is my legacy to you.’

‘Thank you, Grandmama,’ Gwenn said, aware that the statue was her grandmother’s most treasured possession. ‘Mama calls it the Stone Rose.’

‘I know. We’ll talk further on the morrow. Remember, that statue has been my strength and security for many a long year. Now it can be yours. I want to know you’re provided for. I know you’ll take care of Katarin.’ Lovingly, Izabel smoothed Gwenn’s coverlet into place.

‘Yes, Grandmama.’

‘You’ll have cause to thank me for it one day.’ Izabel said, smothering a yawn.

‘Thank you, Grandmama. I do love you.’ And then Gwenn shut her eyes lest she was treated to one of Izabel’s lectures.

‘God Bless you, my dear.’

***

François de Roncier stood before the dying fire in the solar at Huelgastel and ran an exasperated hand through his cropped copper hair. He regarded his Breton Captain guardedly. ‘What is it, le Bret?’

Having bearded the lion in his den, Alan saw no reason to beat about the bush. ‘Mon seigneur, I come on behalf of my company. The quarter day is here. I take it you’ll be honouring your debts?’

‘Naturally. The money’s in the vaults.’ The Count rubbed the side of his nose. ‘I’ll dispense it on the morrow, as soon as you have executed your commission.’

Alan stared. ‘Mon seigneur, we have already executed our commission.’

‘Not quite, Captain.’ Count François gave a cold smile. ‘They remain in Vannes, do they not?’

‘I’ll warrant it won’t be for long. They’ll be gone within the week.’ A brief glance told Alan that this private family solar was more exotically furnished than the communal hall below. The lower half of the walls was decorated with a frieze of life-sized herons. Above the frieze, the stonework was painted and the pointing picked out in red. Tapestries adorned the upper walls, framed by an intricate array of roof beams, with bold multi-coloured chevrons drawing the eye the length of the beams from corbels to apex. Alan noticed the delicate glass in the Count’s hand, and the rich, ruby wine he was sipping. His lord lived well.

‘A week is too long,’ the Count said. ‘Captain, you’re to return to Vannes and see them off. I want you to execute,’ he put heavy emphasis on the word execute, ‘your commission as thoroughly as you are able. There’s not to be the slightest chance they’ll come back.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the door by which the Dowager Countess had left. ‘And I do not wish to be implicated. Understand?’

‘I’m not certain I do understand you, mon seigneur.’

‘You’ve wits, le Bret. Use them. I speak plainly.’

Alan le Bret’s grey eyes bored into the Count’s. François waited, hoping his captain was not going to be difficult. He considered this a trifling matter to be finished with swiftly. He could not afford any marks on his slate when he approached the French King with his proposals. An aspiring Duke must have no family skeletons lurking in closets.

‘Well, Captain?’

‘If I understand you correctly, mon seigneur, I’m bound to say I like it not.’

‘You’re not paid to like it!’ First his mother had been putting obstacles in his path, and now this presumptuous mercenary was pitching in with his pennyworth. ‘Mon Dieu, you’re paid to obey!’

‘I’m not paid at all,’ le Bret said, dry as dust. ‘Mon seigneur, you know very well that my men are paid by the quarter, not by the commission. And the quarter day has passed. Our money is due now.’

There was a short silence, and the two men circled each other, wary as dogs with their hackles raised.

François decided he would not like to confront this man in open combat, when his true nature would be unleashed. Le Bret was a determined, ruthless man. A calculating man. Could he be bought, he wondered?

Alan broke the silence. ‘So Count François de Roncier does not deal honourably with hired men.’

François looked down his nose. ‘Honour? What would a peasant like you know of honour? You hire yourself out to the highest bidder. You care for nothing but money.’

Le Bret’s lips curved in a mocking travesty of a smile. ‘Money is reliable, mon seigneur. You know where you are with money. Money does not break its bond.’

‘Insolence!’ The Count’s heavy jowls purpled with rage.

‘I have already reminded you, mon seigneur,’ Alan went on, inexorably, ‘that payment is due by the quarter, not by the commission. As an honourable nobleman, I’m sure you will appreciate the necessity of settling your debts. You wouldn’t want to lose a good company to another employer, would you?’

The veins in de Roncier’s neck stood out like dark cords. ‘How dare you threaten me? I’ll teach you respect for your betters.’ He dived for his sword which lay where Lena had placed it on the window seat and snatched it free of its scabbard.

Standing his ground, Alan spread his arms wide. ‘Here I am, mon seigneur, at your mercy. This will be the only chance you get. Make the most of it.’

The two men glared at each other, the one apoplectic with rage, the other infuriatingly, insufferably cool.

The Count’s sword quivered. ‘Merde! Your death solves nothing.’ Dropping his eyes to the tapestry his mother had been working on, he sheathed his weapon. ‘For my mother’s sake, I’ll not shed blood in her solar.’

Alan swallowed down a scathing reply. He had taken a risk with de Roncier’s temper, but he had been fairly confident that he would not have the stomach for killing an unarmed man. The Count hired others to do his dirty work.

‘Look here, le Bret,’ de Roncier had recovered his composure, ‘you’re a good soldier. I know the rank and file respect you, and I don’t want trouble with the men. I’m willing to add half a pound of purest English silver to your pay if you finish the job. You can have it tomorrow.’

‘Half a pound?’ Alan looked deep into his lord’s hazel eyes. If de Roncier was trying bribery, he must be desperate. In Duke’s Tavern, a sergeant had revealed that the Herevis were distant kin to de Roncier. It must be some ancient quarrel over birthright for it to matter so much.

‘Half a pound,’ the Count confirmed with a confident grin.

The form of a young girl in a vivid blue dress sprang into Alan’s mind. Ned was not the only one to dislike this commission. ‘I’m uneasy about this, mon seigneur. It’s a women’s household.’

‘There’s a lad–’

‘That one!’ Alan dismissed Raymond Herevi with a scornful wave of his hand. ‘He’d be no more use in combat than a lute player. I’ll wager he’s never wielded a knife on anything more lively than the meat on his trencher.’

‘Don’t you turn womanish on me, le Bret.’ The Count thudded a heavy fist on the table, and the costly Eastern wine glasses shivered and tinkled. ‘You are beginning to sound like your lily-livered kinsman, Fletcher. What’s his problem? Is he a coward?’

Alan recalled the gangling colt of a boy who had trailed faithfully after him when he had been forced to leave England looking for work, because mercenaries were banned in England. Ned had been all eyes and legs, and it could not have been easy for him to leave everything he held dear to follow his older cousin. ‘No, mon seigneur, Ned Fletcher’s no coward.’

‘I’ll have his tongue nailed to the whipping post so he can’t infect any more of the troop with his high-minded tattle. I’m surprised at you, le Bret. I’d have thought you would be immune.’

‘It is nothing to do with Fletcher,’ Alan said, though privately he wondered if there was a germ of truth in what de Roncier was saying. He did feel torn. He needed the money – who didn’t? – and normally never thought twice about what he did to get it. But when Ned had spoken out, Alan had taken a long, hard look at his lord. And if he had summed up the position truly, the man was no more than a blustering coward out to steal someone else’s birthright.

Alan was no saint that he could sit in judgement over others. He had smothered his conscience years ago in the need for coin. How much lower than that could you sink? That he needed the money was irrelevant. Did his need justify the shedding of blood, the killing of women and children? Alan was tired of dancing to de Roncier’s tune. He wanted out, and here was de Roncier offering to increase his pay. He wished his conscience had remained dormant a little while longer. Perhaps he’d take the extra money and push on to greener pastures...

‘What about St Clair?’ Alan asked. ‘Don’t you anticipate a fight while he protects his woman and children?’

De Roncier’s hair gleamed like fire in the cresset lights. ‘St Clair hasn’t got enough guards to keep the house under surveillance all the time,’ he said. ‘Besides, he won’t be expecting an outright attack on the house.’

Alan brought his brows together. ‘Mon seigneur, I don’t think I’d recommend an outright attack. It’s too obvious. Someone’s bound to recognise–’

The Count swung round, picked up a solid, brass-topped poker and stirred the fire into life. ‘Point taken.’

‘And afterwards, mon seigneur,’ Alan pressed on, ‘don’t you think St Clair will retaliate? Yolande Herevi means much to him. I’ve heard he’s faithful to her.’

Dropping the poker against the iron firedogs with a clang, Count François let out an ugly laugh. ‘The woman’s his harlot, le Bret, his harlot. What man would risk starting a war – and that’s what it would amount to – over a whore?’