Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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‘Amen to that, Malait. I’d have to kill you.’

‘Not a hope this side of the Underworld.’ Otto’s mouth split in a gaping grin. ‘You’d be mincemeat before you knew what hit you. Au revoir, le Bret.’

Meanwhile the concubine’s daughter was persisting with her quest. ‘I...I’d like to see Irene.’ Her eyes darted nervously to the Viking as he shouldered past her and left the inn.

‘Irene’s not here,’ Tristan said.

The concubine’s daughter placed herself in the potboy’s path, and when he went to move to the next trestle, she was there, waiting for him. Her fingers were crumpling the edges of her veil. There was something different about her, and it puzzled Alan. Yesterday, when he had seen her for the first time, her face had been full of confusion and not a little fear, but he had sensed hidden reserves in her. She had at first refused to accept what was happening to her – she’d not begun to flee until his missile had actually struck her. Alan had put that down to natural arrogance. But watching her now, he realised his assessment had been inaccurate.

Today, though the girl was insistent that Tristan take notice of her, her confidence had gone, and with it that touch of pride. She had lost that blind faith in human nature that only the truly innocent possess. Well, that would do her no harm, the sooner she learned the harsh realities of life, the better. However, it was surprising to discover that a concubine’s daughter could have been so innocent. Alan rubbed his chin. She must have been fenced off from hurt, and blind prejudice, and hate – until yesterday, when all those things had come hurtling towards her in the shape of the good citizens of Vannes.

The girl must be wondering whether she was safe in Mikael Brasher’s tavern. She was wondering whether the people sitting at the tables were the same people who had chased her yesterday. Her eyes travelled inevitably to their table, and hastily Alan ducked his head.

‘Not gone yet?’ Tristan asked, with lazy insolence.

‘As you see.’ The girl’s cheeks were white as snow. She gave the lad a shaky smile. ‘Would you give Irene a message for me?’ Fine-boned hands were clasped in front of her small breasts. ‘Please?’

‘Very well.’ Grudgingly, the potboy put his hands on his hips. ‘What’s your message?’

‘I...I want you to say au revoir to Irene for me.’

‘Au revoir? You’re coming back?’

‘N...no. No. I...I mean adieu.’ Her pale cheeks coloured, and pitilessly Alan suppressed a pang of fellow-feeling. The boy drummed his fingers on the trestle. ‘Say farewell, and please give Irene this.’ She held out a narrow strip of parchment.

Tristan looked at it with the wary eyes of a man to whom reading was a deep mystery. ‘What is it?’ he demanded, suspiciously.

‘It’s only my direction. If Irene needs a friend, tell her she can find Gwenn there.’

Gwenn, thought Alan. Her name was Gwenn. And she could read and write. He shook his head in amazement. Her mother must be quite mad. What use was that to a girl?

Tristan stared at the creamy ribbon of vellum. ‘Irene can’t read,’ he said.

The girl looked nonplussed. ‘No. How stupid of me. I suppose not. Of course she can’t.’

Tristan appeared to relent. ‘She could ask Father Mark to make it out.’

The girl’s face cleared and she thrust the scrap of parchment at Tristan who, with uncommon fastidiousness, wiped thumb and forefinger on his breeches before touching it. ‘Many thanks. Farewell.’ She scuttled into the street, and the potboy tucked the parchment into his sleeve.

At the trestle in the corner, Alan, Ned, and Conan the pedlar all breathed again. Ned Fletcher spoke for all of them. ‘I thought she’d be bound to see us.’

‘Gwenn,’ Alan muttered. ‘It’s very apt.’

‘What was that?’

Alan’s eyes focused on his young kinsman’s. ‘The girl’s name is Gwenn.’

‘So I heard. But I don’t–’

‘You ought to polish up your Breton, cousin, but I’ll translate for you. Gwenn means white. It’s the Breton equivalent of Blanche.’

‘White?’ Ned echoed. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Think about it. White. It also means fair.’

‘She is pretty,’ his cousin said, gazing through the door.

‘Is she?’ Alan picked up his tankard and swirled the dregs of his ale round the bottom. ‘White, symbol of purity and innocence. But the mud’s beginning to cling, wouldn’t you say?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t worry about it, Ned.’ Alan tossed back the last of his ale and met his cousin’s cornflower gaze straight on. ‘Permit me to give you one last piece of advice.’

‘Aye?’

‘If you intend to stay in this business, it’s advisable not to get to know your enemies too well before you start a campaign. You can end up feeling sorry for them, and that only leads to disaster.’ Alan pushed back his stool.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Ned said agreeably. ‘Are you leaving at once?’

‘When I’ve collected what’s owed me.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘That, Ned, my lad, is no one’s business but my own.’

Ned hauled in a breath. ‘I know. But as you pointed out, I was only committed to serving Count de Roncier to this quarter day too, and I hate the man. I want to leave his service. I’d like to go with you.’ He flushed self-consciously.

‘You’re no longer a beardless boy that you need a mentor.’

‘But I’d like to go with you.’ One of Ned’s square hands ran through his flaxen hair. ‘Damn it, Alan. I like your company. Does our friendship mean nothing to you?’

Deliberately Alan turned his eyes from his cousin’s eloquent blue gaze. ‘I travel alone this time, Ned. Nothing personal, but I need to travel alone.’ He extended a hand, which his cousin blinked at. ‘Fare you well.’

Ned’s stool scraped back and the young trooper got stiffly to his feet. ‘I understand.’ He gave Alan a last, searching look. ‘I’ll accompany you upstairs. I still intend to quit, but I’ll make my own way after.’

‘Captain,’ the pedlar snatched at Alan’s leather gambeson, ‘I’ve not been paid.’

Peeling the grasping, wiry fingers from the hem of his jerkin, Alan groped in his pouch for a silver penny and dropped it on the pedlar’s palm. ‘Thanks for the information, Conan.’

‘You’ll commend me to Count de Roncier?’

‘I will.’ Mentally, Alan added the pedlar’s coin to his tally of what de Roncier owed him. He headed for the stairs, Ned hard on his heels.

Conan noticed the stray dog lying by his feet as faithfully as if he were his master. He threw it the heel of the loaf, which vanished in one hungry bite. Rising slowly, Conan the pedlar picked up his tray of goods and prepared to leave. He kicked the dog in passing.

Chapter Seven

Standing with the well between her and the entrance to La Rue de la Monnaie, Gwenn tried to calm herself. The two routiers who had been outside the cathedral yesterday were slumped over a trestle in Duke’s Tavern; and the Viking who had pushed past her with a torch had been sitting with them. They had to be de Roncier men. Gwenn was almost certain she had concealed her dismay from them, and that they had no inkling that she had recognised them; but her mind was a bubbling brew-tub of questions.

Why were they in the tavern? Were they planning more trouble? And what did that giant of a Norseman want with a torch in clear day? If only she could believe their presence that morning was an unlucky coincidence, and that they were merely quenching their thirst.

Conscious that her hands were trembling, Gwenn curled her fingers into her palms. She had believed her mother and grandmother had been exaggerating when they attributed the trouble to the French noble. All this talk of ancient grudges stemming from those long-distant days before her mother had even been born had seemed most unlikely, but now...

She tried to still the ferment inside her. She told herself that mercenaries were men of violence. What had been a stomach-churning nightmare to her, to them was more than likely only a mildly exciting romp through the streets. And de Roncier’s men had not trailed her home, the townsfolk had done that. And now, in the square, in broad daylight, with the citizens going placidly about their daily business, it was hard to believe that they meant her any lasting hurt. The mercenaries were only drinking in the tavern, as they did every morning, no doubt. It meant nothing. The cathedral was behind her. The sun was shining down La Rue de la Monnaie as it often did.

A brisk wind raised goosebumps on her arms, its gusts buffeting the martins, screeching and scissoring after insects in the sky above. A dark canopy of clouds hung over the thatched roofs in the western quarter. Gwenn drew her veil over her head. The martins would have to hurry, or the coming rainstorm would put paid to their meal. She hoped the rain would pass quickly, for her grandmother could not have ridden in a decade and it would make a penance of the journey to Kermaria.

Casting her glance past the well to her house at the far end of La Rue de la Monnaie, Gwenn pulled up sharply. A restless crowd had gathered outside. Her blood ran cold. St Gildas save us, she prayed. Don’t let this happen again. Yesterday had been a bad dream, but Jean St Clair had been there and his men had fended off the crowd. Today he had gone to Kermaria with her mother, and the promised escort had not yet arrived.

More citizens were joining the crowd milling about at the other end of the street. They were like ants when their nest is disturbed, running back and forth with distracted, disorderly movements. There were shouts of confusion. People started run, they were charging towards her. Gwenn’s heart shifted in her breast.

‘Sweet Jesus, no!’ She stumbled back a pace. ‘Not again. Sweet Jesus...’

Several townsfolk roared up to the well, blocking her way to the house. Poised for flight, Gwenn edged backwards. ‘Mother of God, help me.’

Outside her house, the crowd was growing. More desperate questions bubbled up. Was Raymond back or were Izabel and Katarin alone in there? Would the mob break in? What would they do to them? Her limbs locked and, like yesterday, she couldn’t run. Grandmama! Katarin! And then she realised that it did not matter that she could not move, for she could no more abandon her family than fly up with the martins. ‘No,’ she said, firmly, to brace herself.

One of the men at the well looked across at her. He was, to her astonishment, hauling on the well rope. It was Pierre, the herbalist. She waited for the onslaught that was sure to follow his sight of her.

‘Gwenn! It’s Gwenn!’ Pierre screeched, and irrationally he grinned at her. ‘She’s not in the house!’

Why was Pierre pulling up the well bucket? A new terror broke on the roiling surface of her mind. Surely they were not intending throwing her down the well? Of all the crimes that could be committed in a town, polluting the water supply was one of the most heinous. The laws protecting wells were upheld by people in every walk of life. Everyone from rich merchant to poor beggar, from Breton to Frenchman, from nun to cutpurse, all sang out with one voice against anyone low enough to contaminate a well. Gwenn conquered a violent compulsion to scream.

Pierre was shouting at her. ‘Gwenn! Gwenn! Is anyone in there?’

‘What?’ Fear hampered her thoughts, and understanding was slow. ‘What?’

‘Your house!’ Pierre shrieked, pouring water from one bucket to another. Handing the overflowing vessel to another man, he cast the well bucket down the shaft again and hauled on the handle without pause. ‘Is anyone in there?’

Peculiarly divorced from the scene unfolding before her, Gwenn watched the bucket Pierre had filled being passed hand over hand down a long line of townsfolk which stretched to the bottom end of La Rue de la Monnaie. That torch? The Viking had taken a torch with him...

The light dawned. Gwenn lurched to the well-head, white fingers clinging to the cold, mortared rim. ‘Why are you doing that, Pierre? Which house is burning?’

Pierre’s honest face was creased with concern, and he was sweating profusely. How could she have thought him malevolent, even for a moment? She should have known better, Pierre was a healer, and anyone could see that he was frantic with fear.

‘Is anyone in your house?’ The herbalist secured the well-handle and shook her by the arm. ‘Think, Gwenn!’

‘Grandmama and Katarin.’

Pierre went the colour of goat’s cheese. A woman down the line drew a hasty sign of the cross on her breast, caught Gwenn’s disbelieving eyes on her and flinched. ‘Sorry, love.’ The woman shook her head with brief sympathy before turning back to the herbalist. ‘Hurry, Pierre, other houses are smoking like the devil’s pit.’

‘For God’s sake, move!’ A neighbour, a tanner by trade, nudged Pierre, his work-stained hand outstretched for the pail. Too practical a man to waste time on Gwenn, he did not even look at her. ‘The whole street’s about to go!’

Gwenn choked down a sob.

‘Steady, girl,’ Pierre said, and compassion filled his eyes.

Gwenn bolted. She ran so fast that she reached her house before the first bucket of water. The woman had exaggerated. There wasn’t that much smoke, and what there was seeped through the closed shutters to float in the street as innocently as a sea-fret on an April morning. Perhaps Izabel had spilled fat on their cooking fire in the tiny yard at the back of the house. It couldn’t be anything sinister. But Izabel was not cooking today... That torch, what had that giant done with that torch?

She aimed for the door. Hands tugged at her skirts. Voices tried to capture her attention.

‘No, Gwenn, don’t!’

‘You can’t go in there!’

‘Come back, girl!’

She shut her ears to the voices, fought through the hands, saw an opening and dived through it. All light and sound faded. A solid pall of smoke hung in the downstairs chamber. Peering through it, Gwenn saw the torch. It lay against the back wall of the house. Both torch and wall were smouldering. Along the planked floor, the flames had caught hold in places, someone had flung a wet blanket on them in attempt to douse them, and the blanket was the source of the smoke. The fire had been set, deliberately, and she knew by whom.

The rounded water cauldron was off its hook. It lay on its side, rolling gently on the boards as though it had fallen only moments before. A distant but persistent wailing reached her. Katarin was very much alive.

Coughing, for smoke filled her lungs, Gwenn thrust her veil in the puddle of water washing about in the iron pot and wound the damp cloth round her mouth. She groped towards the stairs, following the lure of her sister’s crying. ‘Grandmama!’ She tried to call again, but there wasn’t the air. Gaining the door at the top of the stairs, she pushed it aside and stumbled through. The door had kept the smoke out, for the pall hung thinner and higher in the bedchamber and breathing came easier.

Izabel stood by the window, baby Katarin fast in one arm, while the other was held up to protect her face for, towering menacingly over her, was the form of a giant. It had to be the Viking, though his features were masked by trails of unkempt blond hair. Gwenn watched in disbelief as he lifted one ham of a hand and delivered a vicious blow to her grandmother’s head. ‘Where is it, witch?’ he said.

Gwenn dashed forwards. ‘Grandmama!’ The man turned, and she stared directly into the bearded face of the Norseman whom she had seen not ten minutes earlier in Duke’s Tavern with the other routiers. The smoke was thickening. Izabel sagged against a wall.

Katarin ceased wailing long enough to draw breath, and loosed another high-pitched assault on their ears. ‘Mama! Mama! Mama!’ she cried, a steady stream of sound. Burning wood crackled. The house was firing fast.

Izabel’s free hand scuttled sideways to fumble with the shutter catch. Her grey headdress had been torn off. Her mouth was bleeding. The blow that Gwenn had witnessed could not have been the first. Making a missile of her body, she hurled herself at the Viking. ‘Leave them alone!’ she yelled, and struck out with both hands.

The Viking bared a dreadful row of teeth. A thick, muscled arm snaked out, and Gwenn was tossed head first to the floor as though she were no more than a bundle of rags. ‘Keep out of it, wench.’ He turned back to Izabel.

Izabel had managed to open the shutter. She thrust her head through the opening. ‘Help! Help!’

Her tormentor gave a warped grin. One stride carried him to her and he snatched her from the window. ‘They’ll not come in here, witch,’ he said, with terrifying confidence. ‘The blaze is upon us.’

He spoke the truth, for butter-coloured flames were climbing the stairs. He whirled Izabel round, holding her in a hideous parody of a lover’s embrace. She strained to twist her head away from the Viking’s, but his skewed smile only widened, and he pushed fingers as punishing as steel claws into her grey hair.

‘Where is it?’ he repeated, hoarsely, because even he was affected by the smoke.

White as chalk, Izabel made a choking sound. Katarin stumbled through the curling smoke and fell into Gwenn’s arms. Her plump cheeks were stained with tear tracks, and she was coughing, her small lungs unable to cope with the dense, suffocating smoke. Helpless to do anything for her grandmother, Gwenn clung to her little sister and shielded Katarin’s eyes from the nightmare scene that was being played out before them. She shrieked through black, billowing clouds at the brute who was man-handling her grandmother. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’

‘Where is it?’ The Viking gave Izabel a teeth-rattling shake. Izabel spluttered, and her mouth shut tight as a clam. ‘Answer me, bitch. Where is it?’

The air was painfully thin. Gwenn’s lungs burned and a singing noise started up in her ears. Katarin had stopped crying – her breathing was so shallow that it was all but non-existent, and her moon of a face was turning blue. ‘Katarin!’ Gwenn tried to drag her dampened veil across her sister’s mouth, hoping it would filter out the worst of the smoke, but the child’s starfish-shaped hand came up and pushed it away. Gwenn let her be. Katarin was probably right. They were beyond that remedy. The darkness was closing in on them. Her lungs were a tight, painful mass in her chest. When a strangled whimper emerged from her sister’s blue lips, Gwenn was goaded into action.

She must get air into Katarin’s lungs. She had to get air herself. They were suffocating. More smoke wafted through the door. Amber flames flickered. The stairs were out of the question, that route was closed. She looked at the window. Light poured through it – light and fresh air. She must get to it. Hauling herself upright and ignoring the figures swaying about in a deadly embrace in the centre of the room, Gwenn swam through the smoke to the window.

The clean air hit her like a slap in the face. Gasping and sobbing with relief, she fell on her knees. With the last of her strength she lifted Katarin up so she too could breathe. Katarin took half a dozen shuddering breaths, went pink, and recommenced her wailing. Panting, Gwenn rested her head against the wooden sill. If Katarin could cry, Katarin was alright.

‘Give her to me!’

Gwenn’s head jerked up. Someone was shouting, but she could not make out the direction.

‘Give the baby to me!’

It was not her grandmother. Where the two figures had been locked together, there was nothing, only spiralling black smoke. It must be someone in the street. Gwenn stuck her head through the narrow window, towards light and hope. ‘Pierre...?’ The crowd of anxious people had grown. The breeze had fanned the fire, and the building next door was smouldering. For the townsfolk, a house blaze spelled disaster; the wooden dwellings packed tightly together caught fire more quickly than kindling. Yesterday’s antipathy was forgotten. In such an emergency, everyone dropped what they were doing and rushed to assist. The line of fire-fighters was lengthening by the second. Some were flinging water at the houses, but not all of them were actively helping. A circle of faces was upturned towards her; some strained, some anxious, and others merely curious. A bitter condemnation flashed across Gwenn’s consciousness. Some of them were looking on as though this were an entertainment devised solely for their pleasure.

One of the upturned faces was shouting. ‘Throw the baby down! I’ll catch her!’

Katarin squeaked and hid her face on her sister’s shoulder. ‘Wh...what?’ Gwenn must have misheard.

‘Throw her down!’

Gwenn gripped her sister hard. Her brain wouldn’t work. Throw Katarin out of the window? Was the man mad? ‘I...I can’t!’

‘For the love of God, girl!’ His voice was urgent, compelling. ‘You must!’

He was familiar, she had seen him before. Young, with startling blue eyes, and a tangle of fair hair like a Saxon’s. He wore a soldier’s leather jerkin. Her stomach cramped.

‘Come on, girl! You’ve no time to think! Throw her down! It’s not so high. Hurry.’ He gestured to the man next to him. ‘Your cloak, Alan. It’s stronger than mine. Stretch it out.’ Strong hands grabbed a thick, fur-lined cloak, stretched it out and made hammock of it. ‘Throw her down! She hasn’t got far to fall. This cloak will be as safe as her cradle!’

In the inferno behind her, Izabel cried out. The soldier was right. She had to do it. It was better than Katarin suffocating to death. Dropping a swift kiss on her sister’s forehead, she leaned out of the window. ‘I’ll see you in a minute, darling.’ Katarin’s wail became an ear-splitting screech. Gwenn extended her arms as far as she was able.

‘Now!’ The young man’s shout drew her gaze. ‘She’ll be safe with me. Now, Gwenn!’ Steady blue eyes held hers, honest eyes. Gwenn’s mind raced. How had he come by her name? No matter. He had a sensitive, open face for all that it clashed with his mercenary’s attire. She could trust his eyes, if not his profession.

The young man’s neighbour moved impatiently, and she saw the top of his dark head turning to the townsfolk clustered below the window. ‘Help us.’ He held out the hem of his cloak, and people jumped to take it. Incongruously, she noticed a ring on his middle finger, for she caught the flash of gold as the sun bounced off it. He had bitten fingers, but they clutched the edge of the cloak securely. Both men looked fit and capable. Reassured that her sister would have a soft landing, Gwenn screwed her eyes shut and let go. When she opened them again, Katarin lay motionless in the valley of the cloak. ‘Katarin!’

Katarin blinked and moved her arms. ‘Gwenn?’ Katarin pointed at her, and smiled. ‘Gwenn?’

A ragged cheer went up. A strong hand reached out, plucked the infant from the cloak, and Katarin was pressed against the broad leather-clad chest of the blue-eyed soldier. He smiled at the infant, ruffled her hair, and placed her in the outstretched arms of a woman behind him. His flaxen head tipped back. ‘Your turn now.’

‘Jump, Gwenn! Jump!’ Mikael Brasher had joined the knot of people round the cloak.

The dark-haired man glanced up, and Gwenn’s heart jolted. It was the mercenary who had set the mob on her. ‘You! You threw the first stone.’ Horrified, she stared accusingly at the young Saxon. ‘And you – why are you always with him?’ Biting her lip, she shook her head. They had both been in Duke’s Tavern with the Norseman, the monster who had set fire to their house. And what had he done with her grandmother?

Filling her lungs with untainted air, Gwenn wound her veil back round her nose, and forced herself to go back. Her eyes smarted. In the swirling, choking blackness she was all but blind. Praying her grandmother was close, Gwenn felt her way inch by lung-burning inch. Her foot nudged against something soft. Heart thumping, she went down on all fours, but the softness was the softness of fabric, not of a body. Her grandmother’s wimple. She cast it aside.

‘Grandmama?’

Her lungs were bursting. The oak floorboards felt warm. Gwenn whimpered, and tried to swallow, but her throat was dry as parchment. The crackling grew, was all but a roar, and the gaps between the floorboards shone yellow like the sun. The flames from the chamber below must burst through any second. The floor groaned a warning and shifted under her hands and knees. Gwenn gulped. Cold sweat trickled down her back. She was hot and cold all at once. Gritting her teeth, she crawled forwards another inch, and another, until eventually her hands encountered what felt like a corpse.

‘G...Grandmama?’ The body moved. It coughed. ‘Thank God, you’re alive!’

‘Gwenn?’ The old woman’s breathing was harsh, laboured. ‘Get out, Gwenn.’

‘Grandmama!’

‘Out,’ Izabel whispered hoarsely. ‘I’m finished.’

‘No!’

‘Finished.’ Izabel was shaken by coughing. ‘Divine retribution...’

That Viking animal had deranged her grandmother’s mind. ‘No.’ Gwenn heaved on Izabel’s arm, to little avail. She heard a roar as the back wall of the chamber became a curtain of fire. Great tongues of flame licked up it. The cracks in the floor glowed brighter, bright as molten gold in a goldsmith’s crucible. ‘Grandmama! Don’t give up!’

‘Tell...Yolande...I am sorry,’ Izabel breathed, in distant, dreamy tones.

‘Grandmama.’ Gwenn sobbed. Izabel’s mind must have gone, she seemed heedless of the danger.

‘Though Yolande sinned,’ Izabel choked weakly, ‘I see that my narrowness, my bitterness...was a far greater wrong. Tell her...ask her...forgive me?’ Her voice faded; she blinked through the swirling drifts of smoke, seeming to rouse herself as she strained to raise her head. Rheumy eyes fell on Gwenn, she looked stricken. ‘Why, Gwenn, why have you not gone? Your time is far off. You must go.’

Roughly, Gwenn gripped her grandmother’s arm. ‘Grandmama, you’re not even trying!’

Izabel twisted her head towards Gwenn’s. ‘It’s my time, my dear. The Lord has spoken.’ Her old eyes glistened with moisture. ‘But you should not be here. Go. Say a Mass for my soul. Obey my last wish, and get out.’

It was hopeless. Dry, gulping sobs ripped through Gwenn. A loud crash informed her that part of the staircase had collapsed. She heard a drumming in her ears.

‘Out!’ Her grandmother’s head thudded on the boards.

The drumming was louder, nearer; it sounded like footsteps. Gwenn screwed up her smarting eyes to squint through the smoke, and went rigid. Someone was kneeling on the other side of her grandmother. Her senses deserted her.

She had been consigned to a furnace in Hell, and the Devil had sent one of his minions to torment her, for the flickering flames illumined swarthy features that were dirty with soot and streaked with sweat. Night-black brows arched over frenzied grey eyes. It was the face of a demon, and he had come to chose between her and her grandmother. Gwenn screamed, and reached for Izabel.

Her grandmother’s hand fluttered to meet hers. ‘Go,’ Izabel gasped. ‘And remember, Our Lady is yours. The Stone Rose is yours.’ Izabel let her breath out on a rattling sigh, and was still.

The demon was making his choice. Sick to her core, Gwenn watched as his fierce eyes passed briefly over her grandmother, seemed to find her lacking, and came to rest on her. The demon smiled.

‘No!’ Gwenn’s lips were stiff with fear. He took her by the wrist and, as fiends do, he had the grip of ten men. She knew it would be useless to fight him.

‘Come, girl.’ Unceremoniously, he dragged her to her feet and shoved her towards the window and daylight.

Mercifully, with the clear, sweet air easing the pain in her chest, the panic receded, and with a flash of insight Gwenn knew that he was no demon. It was the routier, the one who had thrown the first stone, and for some reason he was trying to save her. He must be intending to throw her out of the window, after Katarin. But Gwenn was bigger than Katarin...

‘Hell’s Teeth!’ The mercenary’s mind and hers ran the same course. ‘The window’s too small.’ Jerking Gwenn to one side, he aimed a boot at the frame, and sent it spinning into the street. Another moment and he had her on the ledge, facing inwards.

She found herself looking directly into his eyes. ‘I’m too big,’ she said, clinging to his arms as though his strength alone could save her.

His dark head shook. ‘A tiny thing like you? Never. Bonne chance, my Blanche.’

The flash of white teeth as he grinned was the last thing she saw from the sill. He hooked his arm under her knees and sent her tumbling backwards out of the window and into the fresh air of La Rue de la Monnaie. The impact of her body striking the cloak forced that life-giving air from her lungs, and for a second or two it was all she could do to catch her breath. But she was not allowed any respite. The townsfolk muttered. The cloak was lowered. Helping hands rolled her out, onto the ground, where she lay gasping like a fish out of water.

‘Gwenn! Gwenn!’ Katarin cried. Blindly, Gwenn held out her arms to her sister, and then the tears came.

The cloak was stretched out over her head. It blacked out the sun. ‘Hold it steady there!’

‘Ready, Ned?’ A new voice asked, coughing, from farther off.

Silence gripped the crowd. All Gwenn could hear was the crackle of burning wood and the hiss of water on fire.

‘Ready, Alan. Jump!’

There was a crack like thunder, a sickening thud, and someone gave a gasp similar to the one Gwenn had made when the air had been knocked from her lungs. A bulging purse, with its strings snapped, landed with a clunk at Gwenn’s side. No doubt it belonged to her rescuer. Hugging Katarin, Gwenn retrieved it, climbed unsteadily to her knees and peered over Katarin’s brown mop of hair into the dip of the cloak. It had split, she saw, under the man’s heavier body. The cloak was lowered to the ground, and the mercenary’s grey eyes went straight to her.

‘You alright?’ he asked. Sweat beaded his brow.

‘Aye.’ Gwenn held up the purse. ‘Yours?’ He nodded. Lip curling, she chucked his no doubt ill-gotten gains onto his chest.

‘My thanks,’ he gasped, white about the face. He made no move to pocket his coins.

‘What’s the matter?’

Her dark saviour stretched taut lips into a grin. He was a stranger to Gwenn, but she would recognise excruciating pain on the face of the Devil himself. ‘You’re hurt!’ she exclaimed, dashing away a hot tear.