Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

‘Aye. It was me who was too big,’ he gasped, and winced. ‘I think my leg has broken.’

Because the mercenary had saved her, and she did not like to see even a devil in pain, Gwenn moved towards him. Her grandmother was beyond her help, but this man was not.

Chapter Eight

The hamlet of Kermaria perched on the eastern bank of a marshy river tributary which wandered lazily through vast unchartered tracts of forest to the north, and flowed south through the wetlands, eventually seeping into the Small Sea. To the south the village was bounded by a flat, boggy area; the western approaches were protected by the river; and the woodlands screened it to the north. From a military point of view Kermaria needed little to make it defensible, it could be reached easily only from the east – the route to Vannes.

Its population was small. Neglected by their lord this past two years, a few stalwart villagers managed to scrape a meagre living from the marsh. They either cut wainloads of rushes and sedge for thatch and carted them to Vannes, or they netted fish and eel as well as the wildfowl which gathered in flocks on the reed-edged waters.

Riding into Kermaria along the main trackway, with her clothes sodden from the steady drizzle, Yolande tried to appreciate the forethought that had gone into the siting of this isolated manor. Her children would be secure here. Nonetheless her heart sank. It was a desolate, unlovely spot and her first sight of it, with the landscape reflecting back the oppressive, unremitting grey of the clouds, was enough to depress the spirits of the hardiest soul. A spine-chilling shriek, like that of a wild pig, whipped through the damp air. ‘What was that?’ she demanded.

‘Water rail.’ Jean’s smile mocked foolish fears. ‘An insignificant, timid bird.’

‘With a large voice.’ Shivering, Yolande drew her cloak about her shoulders though the dripping garment could not possibly warm her. ‘It almost had me out of the saddle.’

‘I’d forgotten what a townswoman you are. You’ll become accustomed to the birds, there is an abundance of them here.’ Jean’s eyes wandered along the approach road, and Yolande followed his gaze.

The avenue was protected on either hand by a stone wall two yards high. Ahead of them at the end of the avenue, loomed three stories of squat, drab building. Jean’s manor was a dumpy tower. Built on a square base, it was solid, grey and ugly. Green-grey lichen clung to the walls. Several window slits were visible, but only one of them, the larger central opening, would allow more than the slenderest spear of light into the interior. Pigeons nested in the sagging roof. All grey. Ivy-hung walls skirted an unkempt yard, in the midst of which a tumble of stones marked the spot where once there might have been a well. There was no well rope, the iron mechanism having rusted to dust. The outbuildings were in a similar state of disrepair and spoke of a lifetime of neglect. Rooks swirled on the horizon above the edge of the forest, black shapes against leaden clouds. Grey. Grey. Nothing but grey.

‘What do you think?’ Jean asked, a half-smile playing about his lips.

Yolande dredged her mind for a positive comment. ‘It...it looks very...safe, Jean, very sturdy.’ She eased her damp veil from the skin at the back of her neck.

‘You don’t like it,’ he said, lips twitching.

Yolande blinked through wet eyelashes at the pile of weathered stone. What could she say?

As they drew nearer, the dilapidation grew more apparent. The stones of the manor were broken and eroded; the mortar was gone in places; the stairway leading to the door had subsided, and some steps were missing. There was a gap between the top step and the door. A garden of weeds and moss was flourishing on the flat roof. If the building was left untended much longer, it would crumble back into the ground completely. Yolande knew her lover had rarely even visited the place since he had inherited two years ago, but to give him his due, the neglect was not all his; his father before him had let the place go to seed after Jean’s mother, Lady Anne St Clair, had died. God only knew what horrors lurked inside.

‘It has...possibilities,’ Yolande got out, hardly daring to look her lover in the eye. ‘But there’s much to be done.’

‘Aye.’ His dark eyes were smiling, teasing. ‘Go on, say it, my love. Admit that it could hardly be worse, and then we can laugh and have done. I’m lord of a bog. Do you understand now why I was loathe to bring you here?’

Yolande’s mare picked her way along the walled trackway towards the manor, and suddenly a woman materialised as if out of nowhere, work-reddened hands wrapped firmly round a sedge scythe. Yolande’s mare skipped sideways. Thin as the reeds in the riverbed, the woman stared at Yolande in unsmiling silence, hostile eyes lingering scornfully on Yolande’s soaked finery. The woman clutched her scythe to her scrawny breasts as though it were a talisman to ward off evil. The scythe moved, fractionally.

Biting her lip, Yolande reined back. There was no doubting the challenge in the woman’s mien. ‘Jean?’

His mount brushed past her. ‘It’s only Madalen, my love. They are unused to strangers, but I think she’ll remember me.’ He nodded at the woman, who stared sullenly at him before a reluctant smile tugged the disapproving features into a semblance of friendliness. The woman called Madalen returned Jean’s gesture, bobbed him a curtsy, and melted back into the wall.

Recovering her composure, Yolande straightened her back and spurred both her mare and her own flagging humour. ‘I hope there’s nothing else skulking in the stonework, Jean.’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘I think you’d best tell me the worst–’ She broke off, for her horse had drawn level with the spot where the woman had been, and the wall was pierced by a door. Further down she saw another. ‘By my faith, are all their houses built out of the wall? Look, there’s a window.’

‘The wall was begun in my grandfather’s time, as a defence,’ Jean said. ‘But it was never finished, and when it fell into disrepair, some of the villagers propped their cottages against it. You’ll see them more clearly from the window in the solar. They’re lined up on the other side, wooden shacks leaning against the wall, nothing but hovels really.’ Jean drew in a deep breath, and grimaced ruefully. ‘I’ve let my holding fall apart at the seams. When my father died, I was daunted by what needed doing, and by the lack of funds. My name will be mud when I make a start. The cottages will have to be rebuilt elsewhere and the doors bricked up – they’re a liability where they are.’ Jean trotted briskly over a small bridge spanning an overgrown ditch.

The moat would have to be cleared. A portcullis should be erected by the courtyard entrance. It would all cost a pretty penny, but his first task must be to arrange for a steward to set down how many bondmen he had at his disposal, and whether any freemen had remained in the village. More used to hawking and hunting and dining in comfort with the Foucard household while he ‘courted’ Louise, Jean was aware that he would not find it easy to shoulder his responsibilities.

‘I hear Brittany’s in the area,’ Yolande said.

‘Aye. My father was sworn to the old Duke, but since he died I’ve not renewed the oath. Perhaps if I swear fealty to Brittany and apply for further revenues, he may grant a sum to tide me over until I knock this place into shape.’

‘I thought you favoured France, not Brittany?’

‘De Roncier favours France.’

‘I see.’ Having completed her inspection of the village, Yolande’s eyes returned to the main dwelling. Cheek by jowl with it, at its eastern base, she noticed a smaller edifice, also in stone.

‘The chapel,’ Jean informed her as their horses came to a halt at the steps of his abandoned home. ‘It’s dedicated to Our Lady.’

‘I had best visit the priest and pay him my respects,’ Yolande said, wondering whether the local incumbent would be as understanding towards her and her dubious position as kind Father Mark had been.

‘No need,’ Jean relieved her mind of that burden, ‘there is no resident priest. The prior from St Félix’s Monastery ministers to the village on Sunday.’

‘Monastery? Where’s that?’

Jean pointed his crop at the forest. ‘There’s a small community of monks in there. I came across them while hunting as a young lad, and was horrified. Sometimes I think holiness borders on insanity. Why at least one of their number had the others wall him up in a cell – for life.’

‘An anchorite!’ Yolande shuddered.

‘Exactly my reaction. The other monks put his food and water through a tiny slot in the wall. There’s no light and not much air. The hermit swears the most sacred of vows to spend the rest of his life in there. The poor wretch rarely speaks. They have to be mad, but they’re quite harmless. I expect the old boy who was walled up has died by now. The others were not so...zealous.’ Jean dismounted, and offered his hand to help her climb down.

‘I mistrust zealots.’

He lifted Yolande to the ground, and squeezed her waist reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, my love. They live in sickening squalor, but there’s no malice in them. And as I said, one of their number comes visiting on Sunday.’

Satisfied, Yolande nodded. ‘Well, until the Sabbath, I’ll content myself with a swift prayer in the chapel. But before that, you must show me what’s needs doing inside.’

Jean linked arms with his mistress. ‘Yolande, I love you.’

‘And I love you, Jean. Come on. Show me our new home.’

***

The solar at Kermaria was on the first floor. Yolande stood in the window embrasure, leaning against the open shutters. For all that she’d had a large fire built and had dried out, she was cold. Hugging a woollen wrap to her, she stared out of the window. The rain had ceased and night was drawing in. Worn to the bone, Yolande would be glad to see this day done.

She had met most of the women, and thought she would be able to work with them to resurrect Kermaria. She sighed. One or two, it had to be said, had not viewed her arrival with the greatest of delight, being set in the old, slothful ways that Jean’s long absence had let them fall into. But the younger ones seemed actively pleased to see her. One especially, a fresh-faced girl called Klara who had a bloom in her cheeks and a shining sheaf of light brown hair, had leapt to sweep the festering rushes from the solar. Klara had been sent out for fresh ones, and had strewn them liberally before the fire to dry, together with a clump of fragrant thyme which had survived the winter beneath a tangle of weeds in its overgrown plot. Mattresses were being aired. Bread was being baked. Meats were roasting in what passed for the cookhouse.

Progress had been made, but it had been slow and wearisome, and the musty bed which Yolande had unearthed in an alcove off the solar looked more attractive by the minute.

Thin slivers of mist were inching in from the marsh. Delicately, they drifted up the walled lane, piling one on top of the other until they formed a white pool in the middle of the yard. The tumble of stones around the old well was become an island. They had been drawing water from the river, but on the morrow, Yolande resolved, the well must be cleaned out and its housing rebuilt. She shivered, and conscious that the chill was more than merely physical, frowned. Her children and their escort were late. She could hear a bell tolling in the distance, but no hoof beats. The ringing did not appear to come from any particular quarter. It glided in on the mist; it was everywhere and yet nowhere. The sound, like the white fingers of mist, hung suspended. It was eerie.

Jean strode into the solar, and Yolande jerked her wrap close about her shoulders. ‘Listen, Jean.’ She tipped her head at the window and he came to wind an arm about her. She rested against him, glad of his warmth and his solidity.

‘I don’t hear anything.’

Yolande could see that Jean was preoccupied with his duties. His villeins had been used to going on as freemen, and it was years since his freemen had been called upon to work out their rents. Bondman and freeman alike were fearful that his return heralded a loss of privilege. Yolande understood their resentment at being dragged out of their comfortable ruts by a lord they had not learned to trust. They could not see the advantages that would come to them if life was breathed into Kermaria. No word of protest had been uttered thus far, Yolande had learned all this from their eyes, but given time, there would be complaints. There was nothing for it but to give Jean’s retainers time to adjust. He must prove he meant to deal justly with them. If they refused to adapt, the freemen could go and make their livelihoods elsewhere, while the bondmen would have to be sold. ‘There, a bell. Jean, you must hear it,’ she said, worrying at her lower lip.

‘Your ears must be sharper than mine. But it’s the hour for Vespers.’

‘The brethren in the forest, of course!’

‘What did you think the bell signified?’

Yolande avoided his eyes. ‘Nothing. You will think me most odd, Jean, but now I’ve stopped running about, I feel like death. It’s as though...’ She struggled to find words for her sense of disquiet, but her fears drifted just beyond expression, formless and elusive – as impossible to grasp as the mist. ‘It’s as though an evil spirit is hovering around the corner. Where are they, Jean?’

‘You distress yourself unnecessarily.’ Soothingly, Jean rubbed the small of her back in a way that normally calmed her. ‘You put me in mind of a mother hen who has lost her chicks.’

A smile trembled on the corners of her mouth. ‘I do feel rather like that. But I wish they’d come. Where are they? It’s only a couple of hours’ journey, they should have arrived long since. Do you think something’s happened?’ Restlessly, she turned back to the window. ‘Where can they have got to?’

Three strides took Jean to the door, and he beckoned for her to follow. ‘Come, let’s go up to the roof. You can see the whole road from there. We’ll watch them ride up.’

***

‘There!’ Yolande pointed into the half light, where, seeming to float on a cushion of snowy mist, a small cavalcade was drawing nearer. ‘I can see them!’

‘I told you they’d be alright.’ Jean screwed up his eyes. ‘That’s odd...’

‘What? What have you seen?’

‘I could swear I sent two men with the pack horses. But there are three now. See, there’s another on one of the mules.’ Jean gasped. ‘Holy Christ! I can see what looks like a litter.’

Yolande clutched her throat. ‘Someone’s been hurt! Not Raymond, I can see him on that pack horse. And there’s Gwenn, riding with Katarin before her.’ She shaded her eyes. ‘Jean, I can’t see Izabel anywhere. Or any baggage.’

Jean swallowed. He had seen the coffin; a simple, ungilded box such as the common folk used in Vannes. But of Izabel Herevi there was no sign. Even when he squinted, the cavalcade was too distant for him to make out who was reclining in the litter, but he did not think it was a female form. He cleared his throat. Yolande was white as milk, and she had not yet marked that plain, unpainted box. ‘I think we had better go down, my dear.’

When they reached the top of the uneven flight of steps leading into the yard, Jean threaded a steadying arm through Yolande’s. Shreds of unearthly mist clung to the ground. A bedraggled cockerel moved through the pale, vaporous pools with his hens, scratching for seed in the rain-soft earth while there was yet daylight. The air was dank and smelt of river. A pig squealed. In the walled lane, the doors gaped like greedy mouths; and as the procession drew nearer, figures gathered in the open portals, eyes blinking. Rooks circled overhead. The bell ceased tolling. The silence was doleful, more tangible than the mist.

‘They take forever,’ Yolande forced the words through her teeth. ‘Why don’t they hurry?’

‘The litter slows them down.’ Jean could see that his eldest daughter was in a desperate state. She wore a travelling cloak that must be borrowed, for it swamped her. The hem of her dress was ripped, her hair was unkempt and plastered to her cheeks by wind and rain. She wore no veil, and her face was scratched and black with dirt. Black?

‘Jesu, Jean, look at Gwenn!’ Yolande pulled free and stumbled down the broken steps. ‘Gwenn!’

‘Mama!’ Katarin wriggled in her sister’s arms, and reached out for her. ‘Mama!’

Yolande lifted her youngest from Gwenn’s lap and all but squeezed the breath out of her. ‘Come here, darling. Give Mama a kiss. That’s better.’ Scrutinising Katarin, Yolande discovered the child did not seem unduly distressed. Relaxing, she transferred Katarin to her hip. A glance at the litter relieved her mind further, for it did not contain Izabel, only a stranger. The man’s coal-black hair was streaked with sweat, and like her eldest daughter his features were obscured by a mask of what looked like soot. Under the filth, severe pain cut lines in his face. One of his legs was in a crude splint. ‘Where’s Izabel? Where’s my mother?’

A huge tear rolled down Gwenn’s grubby cheek and, lips trembling, she looked appealingly at her brother. Raymond dismounted. A look of bewilderment blurred the handsome lines of his face. His bright green eyes were glassy with shock.

Yolande felt as if she had been plunged into a trough of icy water.

‘Mama...’ Her son ran a hand – a shaking hand – round the back of his neck. ‘Mama...’

‘Raymond, why won’t you look at me?’ Following the direction of her son’s gaze, Yolande saw the coffin.

‘Mama, I’m sorry.’ Raymond’s voice shook. ‘There was a fire. The house is gone. And Grandmère...’

Clutching Katarin to her breast, Yolande’s knees buckled. One of Jean’s arms whipped round her waist, and Katarin was eased into the crook of his other.

‘No. No!’ Yolande backed away. ‘I don’t believe it, I won’t believe it!’

Someone stepped into the unhappy circle in the middle of the yard, a hardy young man with a shock of fair hair and pleasant, open features which were easy to read. Sympathy filled his blue eyes. ‘Madame,’ the young man said, and his accent was strange to Yolande, ‘I am very sorry. We did all we could, but we could not get her out. We got your daughters out, but the roof caved in.’

‘Roof? Caved in?’ Yolande did not like the compassion in those blue, blue eyes. It told her that Izabel was truly gone. ‘No,’ she muttered fiercely. ‘Not now, when we have finally come here.’ In Kermaria, Izabel could have lived free of the shame that had shadowed most of her unhappy life. Desperately, Yolande willed the young man to vanish back into the mist, but he remained large as life, feet planted firmly on the ground, and his beautiful eyes were round with fellow-feeling. She would never be able to look at anyone with blue eyes again without remembering this day. She lifted a hand to block out the sight of those eyes, and gripped her daughter’s bridle for support.

‘Face it,’ someone rasped from the ground by her feet.

It was the stranger in the litter. There was no compassion anywhere on that dark visage. Yolande looked at his eyes which were a drab grey and dark with pain, but pitiless. Strangely, she found it easier to regard this man who gave no quarter than the other, compassionate one. ‘I...I beg your pardon?’

‘Ned’s telling the truth.’ His voice lacked the foreign ring of the younger man’s. ‘Face it. The whole street was a mass of fire. The old woman’s gone. Be thankful we got your daughters out.’

Jean surveyed the man on the litter. ‘Your name?’

‘Alan le Bret.’

‘Master?’

The man paused before replying. ‘None, at present.’

‘Is it true, Alan le Bret, that Izabel Herevi is dead?’

Alan, whose skin was ashen under his black mask, grunted assent. ‘Aye. Izabel Herevi sleeps her last sleep in yonder box.’

Yolande gave a soft moan and stepped blindly towards the coffin.

Jean thrust Katarin at his son. ‘Raymond, take your sisters inside, and see the man’s hurts are seen to, will you? I shall look to your mother.’

***

Having settled Katarin with Klara in the relative comfort of one of the alcoves off the solar, Gwenn elected to tend to the routier herself. His litter had been dragged into the hall downstairs, and she was examining a willow basket the serving woman had told her was stocked with bandages and salves, while Raymond nosed around the solar.

‘God, what a midden of a place,’ Raymond said.

Gwenn looked up. Her brother was picking flakes of limewash from the damp-stained walls. Gwenn had been so full of grief for her grandmother that she hadn’t had eyes for Kermaria. ‘I expect the walls will dry out when the fire’s been going awhile,’ she said.

‘For two pins I’d return to Vannes,’ Raymond continued. ‘I have friends there. I can’t see that there’s going to be much going on here. The nearest tavern must be three miles away.’

‘You can’t return, Raymond. None of us can, not now.’

The shock was back on Raymond’s face, and for a moment Gwenn thought he was about to break down. ‘I know.’ His voice cracked. ‘It’s not something that’s easily forgotten, is it?’ His voice strengthened. ‘I know de Roncier’s to blame. One day, I’ll make him pay, Gwenn, I swear it.’

Gwenn’s eyes filled. ‘Revenge won’t bring Grandmama back.’

Her brother strode over the rushes and gave her a rough hug. ‘Don’t cry. That snake’ll pay, I’ll make certain of that, if it’s the last thing I do.’

Her brother was offering her the only comfort he could, and Gwenn nodded. Folding a linen cloth, she added it to the basket of medicaments.

‘Why are you soiling your hands tending to that villain?’ Raymond demanded abruptly. ‘Let someone else do it. Let that wench, Klara, see to him.’

‘No. I want to help him. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead.’

‘I don’t trust him. He could be working for de Roncier.’

‘I don’t trust him either, but he did save me, and I confess I’m curious. That day we were chased, I saw him.’

‘What? In the mob?’

Gwenn nodded. ‘He was the first to throw a stone.’

‘Mother of God!’ A dark flush mottled Raymond’s cheeks. ‘And you want to bind his wounds as though he were some unsung hero! I’d steer well clear of him if I were you. That man’s a bucket of trouble. I shall mention that you saw him in the mob to Mama.’

Gwenn grimaced in the direction of the spiral stairs. ‘He couldn’t hurt a fly at the moment.’

Making an impatient sound, Raymond swung away. ‘And what about when he’s healed? What then? Believe me, sister, there lies a wolf that’s not to be tamed.’

She dug in her heels. ‘I don’t want to tame him, I only want to heal him. It’s a debt I owe him, for my life.’

Her brother flapped her out with a weary hand. ‘Oh, go and tend your wounded wolf, Gwenn. But don’t come crying if he bites.’

She picked up the basket. ‘I won’t.’

‘The sooner he’s better, the sooner we’ll be rid of him,’ he observed sourly.

Gwenn smiled back from the doorway. ‘There is that. Raymond?’

‘What now?’

‘Father Mark said the man has not been born who cannot be redeemed.’ Basket tucked securely under her arm, she stepped quietly into the stairway.

‘Christ on the Cross!’ Raymond exploded. ‘Women! Will they never learn?’

***

Alan was stretched out on a pallet close to the fire in the hall, thinking that a drink would ease the throbbing in his leg. Someone was walking down the stairs, and he glanced up to assess his chances of persuading whoever it was to see to his needs. It was the girl, Gwenn Herevi.

‘I’ve come to look at your leg,’ she announced, clutching a basket close to her breast.

That sounded hopeful. She had obviously decided to play at being an angel of mercy. Her eyes were wary, but brimming with good intent. At the moment nothing could suit Alan better. ‘I could murder a drink,’ he told her.

‘M...murder?’

He had forgotten how young she was. ‘I’m thirsty.’

‘I’ll find something.’ The concubine’s daughter set her basket on the edge of his pallet.

Alan put out a hand. ‘Wine would be good. It kills pain.’

Having poured a generous measure from a pottery bottle into an earthenware cup, St Clair’s daughter handed it to him. Alan noticed she was careful to avoid contact with his fingers. Ignoring this, he drank deep. It was a coarse red wine, flavoured with herbs. It warmed his stomach. Alan had never appreciated how much it meant to have a healthy, pain-free body until this moment. His pain dulled. She watched him. The girl, Gwenn, made him feel self-conscious, though he was dammed if he knew why this should be. ‘My thanks, Mistress Gwenn.’ He looked pointedly at the bottle.

The girl took the hint and thrust the bottle into his hands. ‘Here, you’d better have charge of this.’ Kneeling at his side, she unwrapped his makeshift bandages.

Pain knifed through him. ‘I hope to God you know what you’re doing.’

‘I do. Grandmama taught me.’ Her face clouded, but though her grief was fresh she did not give in to it. Head high, she waved at two yokels who were lurking in the doorway. ‘If you must watch, you can make yourselves useful. This man must be held down.’

‘I can hardly run away,’ Alan said dryly.

She flashed him a look. ‘Nonetheless, you must be restrained, or you’ll wreck the bone-setting.’

The two boys took hold.

‘Are you ready?’

Alan assented and gritted his teeth. Black pain swallowed him up, wrenched him out of the hall, and he was master of himself no more. He gave himself up to the agony and rode it out. After an eternity in a dark vortex with nothing to cling on to, the girl’s soft voice hooked him back. ‘There. You can relax now, Alan le Bret. It’s over.’

He came back slowly. He’d spilt the wine. He was sweating like a pig and he could hardly see for the perspiration running into his eyes. He could taste blood in his mouth. Lifting his fingers to his lips, he discovered he’d all but bitten them through. ‘My thanks,’ he managed to croak.

The two serfs had gone. His leg was neatly bandaged. He had new splints. ‘It doesn’t feel as though its mine.’

‘It will.’

Her eyes were steady. Candid, truthful eyes.

‘Will it set straight?’ An important question, that. Lame mercenaries didn’t have a prayer.

‘Like a lance,’ she assured him, dipping a cloth into a bowl of water. She began wiping his face as tenderly as though he were a babe.

‘Don’t do that.’ He tried to bat her hands away.

‘You’re all sooty, and you’re in no fit state to do it yourself.’

It unmanned Alan to have a maid like Gwenn Herevi washing him. ‘No amount of polishing will make me shine, mistress. I’m tarnished to the heart.’ Her steady, brown eyes flickered, but that was the only sign that she gave of having heard him, for the gentle, inexorable washing continued. Alan wanted to jerk his head away, but to his shame found that she was in the right, he hadn’t strength even for that. Fighting the pain had used up all of his reserves. The hall was rocking from side to side as though an enormous crowbar had been placed underneath it and a giant was levering it up and down. He endured in stoic silence while the room tilted.

‘You were very brave,’ the girl said, conversationally. ‘I should have screamed.’

Talking was the last thing Alan wanted to do, but he reminded himself that it might be useful to win the girl’s friendship. At Huelgastel, Alan had overheard de Roncier and the Dowager Countess discussing a statue and a gemstone; and in the fire, Izabel Herevi had babbled about Our Lady. She had said that she had given it to Gwenn. Was it the same statue? And what about the gem? Alan forced his bitten lips to smile. ‘I’m a soldier, I’m meant to be brave.’

The cloth was withdrawn. The large, brown eyes were thoughtful. ‘You’re a mercenary. I’ve never talked to a mercenary before.’

Alan sighed.

She stared at his purse which he had restrung about his neck. ‘And you make your daily bread by killing people.’

Alan fastened the neck of his tunic and watched her tip back on her heels. With a faint feeling of alarm he recognised the light dawning in her eyes as a missionary one. Useful though her friendship might be, he’d not stand for that.

‘How many people would you say you have killed?’

Transferring his gaze to the fire, Alan refused to answer, hoping she’d change her tactics, or grow bored as children do. She was very young.

‘How many people have you killed?’ She rinsed out the cloth, and started on his face again.

Alan smothered an oath. Gwenn Herevi was persistent in more ways than one. ‘I provide a service, little Blanche,’ he said, and having disconcerted her with the French version of her name, he succeeded in pushing her hand away. ‘I help people fight their battles.’

‘Blanche?’ she wrinkled her nose.

‘Your name.’ Pain made his response more curt than he had intended. ‘Gwenn is Breton for Blanche, is it not?’

‘Aye, only no one ever calls me by the French version.’

He shrugged.

‘The Church condemns mercenaries,’ St Clair’s daughter went on without rancour.

‘Do you condemn me as a murderer?’ he asked softly.

‘You...you make your money by killing people, don’t you?’

He flung back his head and gave a creditable laugh. ‘Pot calling the kettle black, is it?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Lunging for a slender wrist, Alan pulled Gwenn Herevi so close that her face all but touched his. Beneath the grime from the fire, her skin was smooth as marble. Her breath was sweet and stirred his hair. ‘Who are you,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘to call me a murderer? You’ve been brought up on the proceeds of whoredom, when all’s said and done.’

The girl gave an inarticulate cry and wrenched herself free. ‘You...You...’ Poppy-red, she stammered to a halt.

‘Bastard?’ Alan only mouthed the word, but he could see from the way her face grew pinched that she understood him at once. To be quite certain, he rammed his message home with a callous smile, murmuring, ‘That name belongs to you also, sweet Blanche.’

The girl leapt to her feet and flung the cloths and bandages into her basket. Her mouth was set and her hands were trembling. She was speechless with hurt, and fury, and wounded pride. Alan’s conscience stabbed him, and he found himself wondering how low it was possible for a man to sink. He felt no triumph. It was as though he had kicked a puppy who had come running up tail a-wag, not a pleasant feeling. It was disturbing too, to find he was not yet able to put guilt behind him.