‘Blanche.’ Alan sat up and tossed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. ‘This is an unlooked for pleasure. I dared not hope that you would come.’ He was covering up his surprise by playing the gallant. Picking up his cloak, he threw it over a mossy tree stump that the King’s men had failed to uproot, and indicated that Gwenn was to sit on it. It was a good couple of yards from his fire.

‘My thanks.’ Wishing she did not feel so defensive, Gwenn tried out a cheerful smile. ‘Should I not be here?’

Alan was once more at his cooking, with his back on her. His voice was muffled. ‘I thought you wouldn’t want to leave the children.’

‘It wasn’t easy,’ Gwenn said, and unconsciously her hand drifted to her stomach. ‘But my aunt loves them dearly, and I know she will give them the care they need.’

‘Gwenn is considering entering the Duchess’s household,’ Ned said. ‘Why are you laughing, Alan?’

‘I take it you want to see something of your wife?’

‘Naturally. That’s why we thought it best she–’

‘Entered the Duchess’s household?’ Alan gave his head a firm shake. ‘No, my innocent. Duke Geoffrey and Duchess Constance are hardly ever together. If you put Gwenn in the Duchess’s train and you enlist with the Duke’s company, you won’t see her more than about twice a year.’

There was a silence while Ned digested this. ‘I assumed the Duke and Duchess met more frequently than that. The Duchess is coming to the tournament, isn’t she? Or was I misinformed?’

‘No, that information is correct. But it’s a rare meeting, prompted by duty alone,’ Alan said dryly. ‘They took an instant dislike to one another, and so far have failed to produce a male heir. But Duke Geoffrey wants a son, and so...’ Alan glanced at Gwenn who he saw was staring fixedly at the fire, ‘so these occasional...er...duty meetings take place. Rumour has it that the Duchess is with child already, but my guess is that His Grace wants to make sure.’ Observing that Gwenn’s hand had drifted protectively over her stomach, Alan felt himself frown. Was Gwenn pregnant? She noticed him staring and snatched her hand from her stomach, blushing red as a June rose. Her waist was slender as a wand, so if she was with child, it was early days. Alan wondered if his cousin knew. He had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Jesu, but he was hungry.

Jabbing at the fish with a stick, Alan took up a ragged piece of cloth and lifted the spit from the fire. ‘Done to a turn. Have you a tent with you?’ he asked, as he peeled leaf wrappings from the trout. The skin was lightly browned and the smell set his mouth watering.

‘We’ve no tent.’

‘You’re welcome to share mine. His Grace was generous, I’ve one to myself.’

Ned eyed Alan’s cramped quarters with misgivings. Alan had washed his second tunic, and that and his chausses were hanging on the guy ropes to dry. ‘We slept in taverns on the way here. I’d planned to sleep in the open.’

‘That won’t do. Why, even squires sleep in their master’s tents. Besides, it wouldn’t be safe for Gwenn.’ Alan lowered his voice. ‘Too many wolves on the prowl.’

‘Wolves?’ Gwenn stared at Alan’s wolf pelt. Her veil danced as she squinted into the trees.

Offering her some fish on a fresh leaf, Alan smiled into her eyes. ‘Only the human sort, my Blanche,’ he murmured. ‘Rest assured, that skin was not from these forests, it was a gift from my lord.’ Their gazes joined, and for a moment Alan could not free his eyes. It had been two and a half months since he had seen her – a lifetime – and he had been thirsting for close sight of her. She looked tired, and though the sun had left a faint dusting of gold along her cheekbones, there were charcoal smudges under the deep brown eyes. Her lashes were thicker and longer than he had remembered, and her nose prettier. Was her skin as soft as it looked?

Gwenn noticed that Alan’s face was thinner. His hair was blacker and shinier than her memory had painted it, and his eyes were flecked with silver lights. Unusually, they were open as the day. Her stomach lurched. His mouth was smiling, a gentle, resigned smile, with the merest hint of that sinful curve that had always made her cheeks burn. Hastily, she directed her gaze to the fish he was offering her. His fingernails were as bitten as ever.

Ned watched his wife and his cousin, and the play of expressions on their faces gave him a sudden sense of unease.

Alan cleared his throat and addressed Ned over his shoulder. ‘Your wife would be safer out of sight at night, cousin, lest the wolves mistake her for a woman of easy virtue.’

Gwenn lowered her head over her fish and wondered if she wanted to be safe. Alan le Bret had always been able to make her toes tingle. And Ned, well, she loved Ned and was carrying his child, but he never made her toes tingle. Oh, God. Life was growing more complicated by the day, and the more she thought about it, the worse the tangle became. At Wymark manor it had seemed obvious that they must make a life elsewhere. And where should they come but to the King’s joust, where Ned could ask Alan for help in finding a patron? And here was Alan, and Ned, and... Could a woman love two men? Dear God.

Ned was wrestling with a ghastly uncertainty. Could he trust his cousin with his wife? ‘I think I will buy a tent, Alan. I thought I saw someone selling them, back by the river.’

‘Don’t think of it.’ Alan shook his head. ‘They’re a bunch of thieves. They follow the tourney circuit and double, even triple the price. There are always dolts ready to pay through the nose in order the save a trip back to Paris. I’ve heard it said they remove tent pegs in the night, in order to re-sell them at inflated prices to their original owners next day.’

Ned hesitated.

Alan sent his cousin a reassuring smile. ‘Gwenn will be quite safe in my tent, I assure you, Ned.’

Ned relaxed, and cursed himself for thinking ill of his cousin. ‘My thanks, Alan.’

***

Less than a mile away, Count François de Roncier headed a small company of some twenty men bound for the King’s joust. On his right hand rode a keen young knight of his household. This knight, a raw recruit, name of Walter Venner, was full of zeal. He was wearing his helmet as were others in the Count’s troop, but despite the heat, he had his visor down, and his features were completely obscured. It lent him a fearsome, mysterious air. François did not object, for he viewed the King’s tournament as little more than an exercise in self-promotion, and Venner could only enhance his reputation by comporting himself in so bellicose a manner.

At his left hand Otto Malait sat astride his bony charger.

François was in a rare holiday mood, and he had been speaking in a jocular manner with his knight. He turned to include the Norseman in the conversation. ‘Advise me, Malait. Where shall I pitch my tent? In the space reserved by King Philippe for the French, or in the section cordoned off by the Duke of Brittany?’

‘A knotty problem, mon seigneur.’ Otto responded, well aware that this must be some sort of test, for on the rare occasions the Count sought counsel, it was from the Dowager Countess, not his men. ‘But as you are come at King Philip’s invitation, I would suggest the French quarter. And you are French by blood, mon seigneur.’

François turned to Venner. ‘What say you, Sir Walter?’

‘I would think, mon seigneur, it would depend on which overlord you feel more bound to.’ Venner’s voice was muffled by his helm. ‘Most of your lands are in Brittany, are they not?’

‘They are.’

‘I heard, mon seigneur, that you had family troubles with rival claimants to those lands. If I were you, I’d camp with Brittany. You’ve more at stake if you lost his favour.’

‘What you say is true. But I’ve settled matters entirely to my satisfaction in Brittany.’

‘You’ve eliminated your rival?’