Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

She snatched up her basket and twisted away, taking a second to dart a malevolent look at his broken limb. ‘I could kick it,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.

Alan looked straight at her. ‘Inadvisable,’ he said, smooth as silk. ‘It would undo all your good work.’ It was only after she had stormed up the stairs that it occurred to him that in wanting to kick his leg, she had mirrored his own guilty thoughts with peculiar accuracy.

***

In answer to her mother’s summons, Gwenn pushed past the faded, rotting rag that a generation ago might have been a creditable door-hanging, and entered the sleeping-alcove that Yolande was to share with her father. Her grandmother’s bier had been placed in the chapel, and Jean was organising a vigil for her. Gwenn would attend the vigil, as would her mother; none of them would rest that night. ‘Mama?’ Her mother was reclining on a moth-eaten mattress, a hand shielding her face.

The hand was removed and red-circled eyes met hers. ‘Come in, Gwenn.’

Gwenn sat down by her mother. A musty odour filled the small chamber, and by it Gwenn knew that the mattress was filled with chopped straw and that it was damp. ‘I wouldn’t lie on that, Mama. It will make your joints creak.’ She reached for her mother’s hand, which gripped hers hard.

‘It’s only for a moment,’ Yolande answered distantly. ‘Tomorrow, you can help me organise new ones for us all.’ She hesitated. ‘Gwenn, I...I’m sorry to have to ask you this, I’ve asked Raymond, but as he wasn’t there at the time, he couldn’t tell me.’

‘Tell you what, Mama?’

Her mother’s breast heaved. ‘Was...was it a swift end for her, do you think? I...I cannot bear to think of her suffering.’

Gwenn’s throat closed up. ‘Oh, Mama. It...it was the smoke. I was with her at the end. She charged me with asking for your forgiveness.’

A sob. ‘She wanted my forgiveness?’

‘She loved you, Mama.’

This was not the moment to inform her mother that the Norseman had set the fire. Had he escaped? Was he in de Roncier’s pay? It seemed likely. And what had he wanted from her grandmother?

‘Grandmama did not suffer long.’

Yolande closed her eyes and turned her head away. After a few moments’ silence, she lifted swollen eyelids. ‘Raymond told me that you’ve seen Alan le Bret before?’

‘Aye. He was by the cathedral when the Black Monk–’

‘He could be a de Roncier man. I won’t have him lodged here.’

Gwenn remembered how Ned Fletcher had tried to warn her by waving her away from the cathedral. While she was not certain of Alan le Bret, she would trust Ned Fletcher with her life. And if Ned Fletcher was Alan le Bret’s friend, le Bret could not be all bad...

Aloud she said, ‘But he saved me, Mama. He broke his leg saving me.’

‘He’s got to go.’

‘Let him stay till his leg is healed, Mama. We owe him that.’

Yolande sighed wearily. ‘I don’t trust him.’

‘Please, Mama.’

‘I shall consider it. Now, will you lend me your arm as far as the chapel? I...I feel a little shaky.’

Chapter Nine

Later that evening, with his belly filled, Alan took stock of his surroundings. As halls went, this one was small. Damp torches smoked in cobwebby wall sconces. The trestle tables – so recently scrubbed they had eaten from them before the water had dried – had been cleared and pushed to the walls. The wine had been stowed under lock and key in vaults below. He smothered a sneer. The St Clair family had fled to this rundown, pigsty of a manor, and despite the tragedy that had struck them, they were already managing to run it as though it were a full-sized castle. De Roncier was obviously no fool to fear St Clair’s ambitions, for the man had pretensions that soared way above the station of a lowly knight. The St Clair family themselves had not eaten a morsel, spending most of the time in the chapel, watching over the body of the concubine’s mother.

Not surprisingly, Alan’s leg was aching. Wearily, he sank back into his pillow and chastised himself for antagonising the Herevi girl. He hoped he hadn’t ruined his chances. If what he had overheard Marie de Roncier say about the statue was correct and it did indeed contain a jewel, Alan intended to have it.

His cousin entered the hall via the solar stairway. Dragging a stool to Alan’s pallet, he sat down beside him. ‘Feeling better, Captain?’ he asked, in English.

Alan glanced around the hall, but no one was paying them any attention. ‘Don’t call me Captain, Ned. Alan will do. Although it’s unlikely that anyone can understand us, I for one don’t wish to cry it about that we were signed with de Roncier. And I’m no longer your captain.’

‘Aye. I’m sorry. It’s become a habit, Alan.’

A companionable silence fell over the two men. The combination of too much wine and the warmth of the fire made Alan sleepy. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift.

Ned dragged him back to reality. ‘Cousin?’

‘Mmm?’ Alan opened one eye.

‘St Clair’s asked me to stay.’

Alan opened his other eye. ‘He has? In what capacity?’

‘Man-at-arms, initially.’

‘You’ve accepted?’

‘Yes. Alan?’

‘Mmm?’

He’s offered you a place. He needs more freemen and said to tell you that he’ll employ you when your leg is healed. He’s grateful to us.’

Perhaps there was a God in Heaven after all. It appeared he had not ruined his chances of easing his way into the household. He may yet find the gem and carry it away with him. He tried not to look too enthusiastic. Dimly, he recalled telling Ned he had greener pastures to go to. He must tread cautiously, for if he accepted St Clair’s offer immediately, Ned would know he was up to something. He yawned. ‘He did, did he?’

‘Go on, Alan. It won’t kill you to stop here. Sir Jean seems a reasonable man. We may find ourselves crossing swords with de Roncier, but if you’re afraid–’

‘Have you marked how many men St Clair has? What would the odds be if it came to a straight fight between St Clair and our old friends?’

‘Not good,’ Ned admitted soberly. ‘They are in great disarray, with not above half a dozen men, and two of them are no more than babes. One is in his dotage.’

‘Pitiful. I think that I’ll stay,’ Alan replied, illogically.

‘Why this sudden change of heart? The odds are appalling, and I know you only take calculated risks.’

Alan grinned, and thought of the gem. What might it be worth? ‘Every now and then, Edward, my boy, I relish a challenge. Besides, St Clair’s brought a palatable wine with him. Did you not notice?’

Pleased, but none the wiser, Ned gave his invalid cousin a bemused smile. He was fond of Alan, and had always admired him, but he had never understood him. Despite his surname, Alan had been born in England, in Yorkshire. It was Alan’s father who was the true Breton born and bred. As well as being his kinsman, Alan was the only other person in Kermaria who could speak fluent English. Ned’s French was acceptable, and his Breton was improving daily, but it meant something to be able to converse with his cousin in his native tongue. The link between them may have become tenuous over the years, but Ned was pleased he’d not be stranded with foreigners.

‘How long do you think till you’ll be up and about?’

His cousin spread his hands. ‘Who knows? A month, if they feed us right and I heal quickly. Six weeks otherwise.’

The flaxen head nodded. ‘Lucky for the lass that we were heading up her street.’

‘Luck?’ Alan was examining his bitten nails and the suggestion of a smile flickered across his lips. It had been the thought of the mysterious statue and what it might contain that had prompted him to suggest they take that route. Only when they had reached the well and Alan had seen the smoke had he had realised that Otto had beaten him to it. ‘Luck? I wouldn’t call it luck exactly.’

Ned dragged his fair brows together. ‘What? Oh. I see what you mean. Not lucky for you with that leg. But you must agree, Alan, that destiny had a hand in today’s events.’ Intercepting a quizzical look, he added, ‘What else could it be but destiny when we’d finished our service with de Roncier? We needed employment, and now,’ a wave of his hand included the hall, ‘thanks to your bravery, we find ourselves neatly settled.’

‘Destiny had nothing to do with it,’ Alan said, shortly. He found his cousin’s irrepressible faith wearing at times.

‘God then.’

Alan rolled his grey eyes at the rafters. Not another. He had had his fill with the girl. One dose of an innocent in search of meaning was more than enough for one day. ‘Shut up, Ned,’ he said irritably, and settled himself down into his blankets. ‘I’m for sleeping. Shouldn’t you be on guard duty?’

***

Izabel Herevi had been laid to rest, and in the hall the funeral breakfast was over.

Seated at the board, Yolande Herevi turned lacklustre eyes on her lover and tried to be practical. ‘Jean, I’d like to see the undercroft cleared today. We need an inventory of the stores taken so we can send for supplies from Vannes. Gwenn knows what needs to be done, but she’ll need help.’

Jean nodded, realising that it would be good for all of them to work hard that day. It would take their minds off their grief. ‘She can have Raymond.’

Raymond was idly carving a piece of wheat bread into a ball. He groaned, and flung down his eating knife. ‘Cleaning? Me? But that’s women’s work.’

Jean’s brows snapped together. ‘You’ll do as you’re bidden, my boy. There are heavy barrels down there. You don’t expect your sister to move them on her own, do you?’

‘No, sir.’ Raymond picked up his knife, stuck it in his belt, and rose reluctantly.

‘You can take that new lad, Ned Fletcher. He’ll lend a hand.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Raymond beckoned Ned Fletcher over.

Yolande watched the young Saxon that Jean had sworn in the night before and wondered about him and his companion, Alan le Bret. This fair one looked as though he could be trusted. She watched him spring to her daughter’s side, ready and eager to lift the trapdoor for her. There was no deviousness in that young man’s nature, she was sure of that. She would raise no objections to his being part of Jean’s company. But she could not say the same of Alan le Bret in view of what Raymond had told her of his possible involvement with the mob.

Alan’s pallet was pulled up before the fire, and at the moment he was watching Gwenn as she held a taper to a candle lantern. Yolande did not feel competent to assess his character. She was grateful to him for saving her daughter, but there was something about him that made her uneasy. However, he could not do much harm in his present condition. He could stay while he mended, but she would watch him like a hawk, and at the first sign of trouble she would have Jean remove him.

The wick of the candle Gwenn was lighting was damp and it was a moment before it sputtered into life. Ned held out his square, blunt-fingered hand. ‘Let me take that, mistress,’ he said. ‘I’ll go first. You never know what might lurk below.’ He took the lantern and peered down the steps.

‘I expect there’ll be rats, Gwenn said matter-of-factly as Ned began descending, ‘but I’m not afraid of rats.’ Tucking up her skirts, she picked her way after him with care, for the steps were masked by shadows and coated with a slippery film of damp moss. Raymond dragged his heels.

Halfway into the shadowy depths Ned stopped and rolled large eyes at Gwenn. He lowered his voice as though he were afraid. ‘There might be worse than rats in here...’

Gwenn laughed, rather to her surprise. That morning, when they had buried her grandmother, she could not have imagined laughing in a hundred years. ‘Worse than rats?’ she said, and feigned fear.

‘There might be evil spirits from the past,’ Ned made his voice hollow and it echoed round the stone vaults, ‘waiting for a young maiden, ready to put her under some terrible enchantment.’

Gwenn let out a mock shriek.

‘But I’ll save you, mistress, never fear.’

Ned leapt lightly down the last of the steps and as he turned to see her safely down, Gwenn’s heart warmed to him.

Raymond joined them. He had brought another lantern and cast disparaging eyes around the undercroft. It was a cool, rectangular room, divided in two by a row of heavy round pillars. It had barrel vaulting. Along the walls, rows of storage jars were buried under tangles of cobwebs. A dusting of grit had fallen down from the ceiling. In the corners, where the lantern light could not reach, there was a scuffling sound. There really were rats down here, and mice. They would have to be ferreted out.

Raymond’s nose wrinkled in a lordly sneer. ‘Phew, it stinks! A fellow can hardly breathe.’

Gwenn found herself exchanging amused glances with Ned. ‘It’s been closed up for years, Raymond. What do you expect? Now the trapdoor’s open, it will soon freshen up.’

‘It might be an idea to have air vents made,’ Ned suggested, examining the storeroom walls. ‘I should think here,’ he shouldered a disintegrating casket aside, and indicated a spot near the top of the wall where the vaulting began, ‘and here.’

‘That sounds a very good idea, Ned,’ Gwenn said, smiling. ‘We can mention it to Sir Jean.’

Ned smiled back at her. Raymond, she noticed, was moodily tapping a wine barrel. ‘Empty,’ he pronounced in gloomy accents. He moved on to the next, and tapped that. ‘This is empty too.’

Gwenn and Ned grinned at each other, and Gwenn’s heart lightened. It would be good to have someone near her age to talk to apart from Raymond.

‘Where do we start, mistress?’ Ned asked.

‘More lanterns I think, and brooms. Then we must sort out–’

‘Hell,’ Raymond cut in, ‘there’s no wine here at all, save what Sir Jean brought with him.’

‘Isn’t there, Raymond?’ Gwenn said, sweetly. ‘Then hadn’t you better lift those empty caskets out of here for scalding and repair? They can be refilled then.’

Reluctant to take orders from his sister, Raymond moved slowly. Ned was there before him, a casket under either arm as he headed up the stairs. ‘I’ll fetch more light, mistress,’ he said cheerfully. Raymond would not be much help that day, Gwenn realised, but Ned Fletcher would, and willingly too. She liked him, very much.

***

One fine morning about two weeks later, Gwenn was leaving the hall to lay fresh flowers on her grandmother’s grave, when Alan addressed her from his place by the fire. ‘Mistress Gwenn?’

‘Yes?’ Curious, for the routier never spoke to her except when she was tending his leg, Gwenn drifted over.

‘I was wondering if you could spare a moment or two,’ he said courteously.

‘Is your leg troubling you? The bandages chafe?’

‘No, not at all.’ He raised smoky eyes to hers. ‘Would you mind if I talked to you about your grandmother, mistress, or would it upset you?’

‘It wouldn’t upset me.’

‘Good. I’ve been thinking.’ His lips curved wryly. ‘Lying here all day, I have little else to occupy my time, and there’s something I’ve been itching to ask you.’

‘Yes?’ Gwenn felt shy and gawky when Alan smiled at her.

‘In Vannes, on the day of the fire, your grandmother made mention of a stone rose. What is it, mistress?’

‘A statue of Our Lady.’

Alan let his breath out in a soft sigh. He had thought as much. He threw another smile at the girl, who seemed to like them, and watched a delightful flush steal across her cheeks. ‘Was it precious to her?’

‘I suppose so.’ Gwenn’s voice went croaky. She would have liked to ask why her grandmother’s statue fascinated him so, but she seemed to have lost control of her tongue. When Alan le Bret smiled, his eyes were as clear as a mountain brook dancing over grey stones, yet disturbing, too.

‘You are sorry that a keepsake of your grandmother’s was destroyed in the fire?’

‘It wasn’t destroyed. But what does that matter? Grandmama’s dead. What good did the Stone Rose do her?’

Alan clicked his tongue. ‘Careful, sweet Blanche, that borders on blasphemy. Your mother’s entered the hall, and she must have heard you, because she’s frowning.’

Yolande beckoned her daughter. ‘Gwenn, come upstairs.’

***

‘Here.’ Yolande waved Gwenn onto her bed and drew the dingy curtain across the alcove’s entrance. ‘Sit down. It’s high time you and I had a little talk.’

Thinking that she must have committed some sin and was about to be rebuked for it, Gwenn scoured her mind for her misdeed. ‘My apologies, Mama. Should I not have been talking to Alan le Bret?’

Yolande touched her daughter’s arm. ‘Naturally, you must converse with the man seeing as you have taken him under your wing.’

‘I felt obliged, Mama, because he saved me, and it would be churlish to refuse to speak to him.’

Accepting this, Yolande inclined her head. ‘I know. You are a girl who likes to honour her debts, but I trust you are not blind to that man’s nature.’

‘He’s a mercenary. As is his kinsman, Ned Fletcher.’

Yolande moved her face to within a hand span of her daughter’s. ‘Aye. Just so. But I do not think that Alan le Bret is cast in the same mould as Ned Fletcher, and I’d be grateful if you would tell me what you were talking about when I stumbled across you just now.’

Gwenn lifted finely structured hands. ‘Nothing much, Mama. He was asking about the Stone Rose.’

Her mother’s green gaze sharpened. ‘Was he, indeed? How interesting.’ Yolande rose, and drawing back the curtain screen, peered into the solar. It was empty. ‘Listen attentively, Gwenn, I’ve something to discuss with you, and I want you to swear to me, on your honour, which I know means much to you, that you’ll never breathe a word of this to anyone, not even to your father or brother.’

Round-eyed, Gwenn stared at her mother.

‘This secret is not one for men,’ Yolande murmured. ‘Do I have your promise?’

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘Good. Now hear me out, and afterwards I’ll tell you my plan for ridding this house of the vermin that has slunk into it unasked.’

***

Later, Gwenn escaped to tend her grandmother’s grave.

On the glebeland, sparrows were quarrelling in an old yew tree, and in one of the apple trees which edged the graveyard a blackbird was singing. Gwenn plucked the faded primroses and cowslips from their pot and arranged fresh blossoms, turning her mother’s words over in her mind. All at once, a prickling at the back of her neck warned her that she was being observed. Out of the tail of her eye she saw someone slip out of the chapel to crouch in the shadows of the porch. She caught sight of long, straggling hair as yellow as the cowslips in her grandmother’s vase, and gained an impression of muscle-bound bulk. Her stomach knotted. Imprinted in her mind was the face and form of the Norseman, and though Gwenn had not seen this prowler’s features, she knew him to be male, and that glimpse, brief as it had been, had reminded her of him.

‘Who’s there?’ Her voice was sharp with alarm.

The figure shrank back. With slow deliberation, Gwenn climbed to her feet and shook out the skirts of her gown. Ned Fletcher had hair as bright as that when the sun was on it, she reminded herself. But the man in the doorway had been standing in the shade, and Ned Fletcher did not wear his hair so long.

The blackbird stopped singing.

As fast as her feet would carry her, Gwenn sped across the grass and through the arch in the graveyard wall. The iron gate clanged behind her, and she did not pause for breath until she had scrambled up the steps and catapulted into the hall.

At that hour, it was filled with people. Her mother was addressing Joel, the cook. Her father and brother were deep in conversation at one end of a trestle, and at the other sat Alan le Bret. He had been given employment teaching one of the village freemen recently drafted into Jean’s service how to keep an edge on a sword. A whetstone had been brought up from the vault, and a pair of crutches was handy at his elbow.

‘Where’s Fletcher?’ Gwenn demanded of the room at large.

‘Here, Mistress Gwenn.’ Ned Fletcher detached himself from the knot of men by the fireplace. ‘What’s amiss?’

If...if you’re here,’ she stretched her eyes wide, ‘who’s sneaking around the chapel?’

Jean and Raymond jumped up, and Jean barked out a series of commands. ‘Raymond, take Fletcher and search the chapel. Take your arms, and bring any loiterer here. At the double. Move!’

Raymond and Ned clattered out.

Yolande had assumed Alan le Bret’s interest in the Stone Rose was proof he was in league with de Roncier, but she was suddenly assailed by doubts. Hand smoothing her high forehead, she thought rapidly. Was le Bret working for himself, or was he feeding information to de Roncier’s scavengers piece by piece? For an instant the mercenary’s swarthy features had registered surprise – he had been as startled as any by Gwenn’s announcement. Now he was sitting stiffly at the board, head cocked to one side, listening. How slow I have been, Yolande chastised herself. It was plain as a pikestaff that he would only be working for himself. Aye, that glove fitted him more closely. Alan le Bret would own no man his master for long. ‘Count de Roncier is having us watched,’ Yolande said, voicing the words which hung on everyone’s lips. And for the routier’s benefit she added a plaintive, ‘Oh, Jean, will this nightmare never end?’

‘Peace, woman.’ Jean turned to his daughter, who was gazing at her mother in the oddest manner. ‘What precisely did you see, Gwenn?’

‘Someone lurking in the chapel porch.’

‘Could you describe him?’

‘No...at least... I couldn’t be sure. He was a big man, with hanks of straw-coloured hair. I...I got the impression he’d been there for some time. I hoped it was Fletcher. But–’

‘Fletcher’s been here this past half hour.’

‘Sir,’ Gwenn’s voice came out shrill, and catching the mercenary’s gaze on her, she toned it down, ‘I pray I’m mistaken, but I’m afraid it might have been the Norseman I saw on the day of the fire. Remember? I told you about him.’

Yolande gasped and crossed herself. ‘I knew it,’ she said, in accents of doom. ‘De Roncier will be content with nothing less than our blood.’

Raymond charged through the door. ‘Nothing,’ he announced, with a studied glance in Gwenn’s direction. ‘The bird, if there was one, has flown.’

‘There was someone!’ Gwenn burst out. ‘There was!’

The knight strode to the door. ‘I’ll have a scout around myself. Fletcher, accompany me.’

Gwenn’s brown eyes burned as she looked at her brother. ‘Why don’t you believe me, Raymond?’

Raymond did not disbelieve his sister, in fact he believed her only too well. But he loved Gwenn, and had observed the invisible scars the fire had left on her. Her confidence wavered whenever she left the hall. She walked Kermaria with fear perched on her shoulders. Raymond wanted to free her from her terrors, even if that meant lying to her. ‘I’m sure you think you saw someone, Gwenn.’

‘Don’t take me for a birdbrain,’ Gwenn snapped. ‘You were there when the mob went wild; you know I saw someone threatening Grandmama in the blaze; and you know as well as I, that de Roncier is at the root of our trouble.’ And then she clamped her mouth shut, for she could say no more without breaking her promise to her mother.

Alan had been taking a keen interest in the conversation, but at this point Raymond steered his sister aside.

‘Hell and damnation,’ Alan muttered, frustrated. He’d give a week’s pay for more information. Diligently polishing the blade of his sword, he stretched his ears. If Malait was scouting around, then he must make his move soon.

The concubine’s children raised their voices.

‘Sorry, Gwenn,’ he heard Raymond apologising. ‘I only wanted to reassure you.’ With a flourish, the boy gave his sister a charming bow that Alan recognised was a copy of his father’s. ‘Can I make amends? I’m going for a ride. Would you like to come? You could do with a few hours in the saddle, you’ve the most appalling seat.’

‘Don’t be rude,’ Gwenn answered. ‘You’ve had more practice than I. The only ride I’ve had in years was when we came here. And how would you be with Katarin wriggling about in your arms?

‘Pax. Pax. Forget I ever spoke. Can you come?’

Gwenn pulled a face of regret. ‘I’m sorry. I promised Mama I’d help mend the linen. Most of it’s in ribbons. Where are you going?’

‘I thought I might explore the forest.’

Gwenn positioned herself so she had an unobstructed view of Alan. ‘When are you going to retrieve Grandmama’s statue, Raymond?’ she asked, innocently. The mercenary’s head was downbent over his sword, guiding it to the whetstone; but as she spoke his fingers went white on hilt and blade. She smiled.

‘Oh, Jesu, I’d forgotten all about that cursed thing,’ Raymond said.

‘I know it’s worthless.’ Gwenn saw a pulse beating in Alan’s neck, ‘but I would like it. Where is it?’ The grindstone creaked to a halt.

‘Locmariaquer. In one of the temples.’

Gwenn caught her brother’s arm. ‘Go that way today, Raymond. Please. I’d love to have it back. It means even more to me now Grandmama is gone.’

‘I’ll see. I’ve a mind to explore the forest.’ Raymond didn’t want to commit himself, but observing his sister’s crestfallen expression, he relented. ‘If I don’t fetch it today, I’ll fetch it soon. Agreed?’

Gwenn nodded. ‘You’re a beast,’ she said, with a grin.

Raymond grinned back, unrepentant. ‘I know.’

***

A month slipped by. Alan’s leg was all but healed and his splints were removed. Yolande and Gwenn decided that the time was ripe for them to set the wheels in motion.

It had rained all night and ragged, wind-bitten clouds chased across the sky, but Gwenn was determined that this was the day she would ride to Locmariaquer and reclaim her statue. A few paltry raindrops were not going to stop her.

Despite Raymond saying that he would collect the Stone Rose, he had not yet done so, nor had he taken her riding. Today, Gwenn’s laggardly brother was going to be made to fulfil his promise. Gwenn began wheedling as the family was eating their early morning crust. The men-at-arms were on a separate table, nearer the door. ‘Raymond, may I ride with you today?’

‘No,’ Raymond mumbled, through a mouthful of bread.

Prepared for this response, Gwenn edged along the bench till her shoulder touched his and dimpled up at him. ‘What excuse have you today, Raymond? Yesterday you were too busy hunting; the day before that you’d a wager with Denis; the day before that you were writing for Sir Jean...’ She let her voice trail off, noticing the pebble grey eyes of Alan le Bret resting on her. Turning her back on the mercenary, she smiled at her brother and wondered what excuse he’d produce today.

‘My apologies, Gwenn,’ Raymond flashed her a smile that she recognised was as charming and meaningless as hers for him. ‘I have been busy. Sir Jean lacks a clerk, and I’ve been helping out. I’ll take you tomorrow, I swear it.’

‘Always tomorrow,’ Gwenn muttered.

‘What’s wrong with today?’ Yolande said, entering the conversation.

‘I’m to help Sir Jean with plans for the guardhouse,’ Raymond informed them importantly. ‘It’s much more to my taste than the clerk’s task I’ve been lost in, and I want to prove my worth, else Sir Jean will have me play the clerk for ever.’

Yolande and Gwenn exchanged dismayed glances. They had hoped that between them they might have persuaded Raymond to go to Locmariaquer.

Jean set his cup down. ‘I do need Raymond, Gwenn,’ he confirmed, wiping droplets of wine from his moustache with his sleeve. ‘I’m planning radical alterations to the fortifications. He will assist.’

Gwenn let slip a groan of disappointment, reached for a loaf, and broke off a large chunk. She wanted action, and today. ‘He promised me he’d fetch Grandmama’s statue nigh on a month ago.’ Her dark brows formed a discontented line. ‘The men in this household only honour their promises when they are made to other men. Women don’t count, do they?’

Jean’s eyes filled with reproach. ‘Don’t be ungrateful. You are allowed your say far more than most young ladies.’

Gwenn bristled until she read affection in her father’s expression, and then she grinned. ‘I’m a nuisance, I know. But I would like the Stone Rose back. Raymond swore to Grandmother that he’d see it in my hands, and that was six weeks ago.’

‘She has a point, my love,’ Yolande said, taking her part.

‘I don’t know what all the whinging is about,’ Raymond threw in. ‘Not only is it worthless, but it’s a dreadful, ugly carving.’

‘I agree.’ Alan le Bret’s eyes were boring holes in Gwenn’s shoulder-blades. ‘But since it belonged to Grandmama, I would like it.’

‘It’s a small thing Gwenn asks, my love, and it means so much to her.’

‘Where is the damned thing, Raymond?’ Jean demanded.

‘Locmariaquer.’

Gwenn sat very straight.

‘Not too far,’ Jean observed. ‘But, no, Gwenn, I cannot spare Raymond.’ His daughter’s spine sagged, and he winked indulgently at her. ‘But if mademoiselle has set her heart on it, one of the grooms can take her.’

In a flash, Alan hoisted himself upright and limped across. ‘I’ll accompany your daughter, Sir Jean.’ Gwenn covered her mouth with her hand to hide a delighted smile. ‘I’m not much use as a soldier yet, but the exercise will put some strength back into my leg.’

‘No, Jean!’ Yolande grasped her lover’s hand. It was no part of her design that Gwenn should ride off alone with the routier.

Jean tugged doubtfully at his moustache.

‘If your son furnishes me with the direction, I shall be pleased to escort your daughter,’ Alan pressed, pleasantly.

Gwenn turned a blind eye to the frantic looks Yolande was firing across at her. ‘Oh, please, sir, let me go. I’m longing for a ride.’

‘She’s not that good on a horse, Papa,’ Raymond said, dampeningly. He could see that his mother was concerned, and he did not trust the fellow either.

‘I doubt that I’d be that skilled a horseman myself at the moment,’ Alan admitted, ruefully. ‘I’ll take it quietly, Sir Jean. I’ll look after your daughter.’

‘Oh, let me go with him, sir.’ Gwenn smiled at Yolande. ‘It will be alright, Mama. I can manage.’

‘But Gwenn...’ Yolande lifted a despairing hand, and words failed her. She was not prepared for this contingency. It had never occurred to her that her daughter might ride off with Alan le Bret, but without betraying the whole, she could say nothing. And Gwenn, dreadful child, knew that.

‘Please, sir.’

Jean did not want to spend the morning discussing trifles. Time was pressing. He relented. ‘Very well. Be back before sunset.’