Conscious of a tug in the region of her heart, Gwenn looked away. ‘Why thank you, Alan,’ she said, voice husky. ‘I...I like your company also.’ A black brow twitched upwards, and she was moved to enlarge. ‘I never have to pretend with you. I can be myself. You make me feel at ease.’

‘At ease,’ Alan murmured softly.

She had the obscure feeling that her remark had displeased him.

‘Like with Ned?’ Alan forced the question through his lips, not because he wanted to, but because he found he had to, though he knew he couldn’t expect an honest answer. To his astonishment, she tried to give him one.

‘N...no. Not at all like Ned. Ned’s predictable, while you’re...you’re not predictable at all.’

He laughed. ‘And this unpredictability puts you at ease?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Some people can be predictable, but it’s not at all reassuring. You’re not inclined to judge, Alan, maybe it’s that. No. It’s not that. You’re cold–’

‘Cold?’ He shot her a hooded look. If only she knew. He did not feel at all cold towards her. Ned’s wife, he reminded himself. She is married to my cousin; she is my best friend’s wife.

‘Aye. You’re detached, but I like that. You’re careless of other people’s views.’

‘Careless?’

‘If their ideas don’t match yours, you don’t seek to convert them. You let them be. You wouldn’t impose your will on anyone.’

Alan reached out, and though he knew he should not, he gently drew his fingers across the back of her hand. He felt absurdly like a poacher, and even more so when wine-dark colour ran into her cheeks. Gwenn bent her head over their water pot. Shamefully reassured, he said, ‘So that’s what you meant, my Blanche. For a moment there I was worried. I thought you were telling me you’d lost your liking for me.’

Her head jerked up, her eyes flashed. ‘Liking for you? What are you talking about? I’m a married woman, Alan le Bret, and don’t you forget it!’

The sinful mouth curved, transfixing her gaze. ‘I don’t forget it, not for one moment, I assure you, sweet Blanche. But sometimes, I wish you might.’

Gwenn glared at him, her feeling of warmth and contentment had gone. ‘Oh, don’t you start, Alan,’ she said, wearily. ‘I’ve had my fill with Sir Raoul.’

Instantly, Alan dropped his teasing mask. ‘Martell’s been pestering you?’

‘Like the plague. Sometimes I think that the only reason he agreed to take Ned on was because...’ She bit her lip, afraid her suspicions would come over as arrogance.

‘No need for false modesty,’ Alan said. ‘He’s one of the wolves I was telling you about.’

‘He’s a pain in the neck. He sends Ned off on a wild goose chase, and then comes here. I’ve made it plain I’m not interested.’

‘I’ll have words with him.’

‘Please don’t. I’ll deal with it myself. The grand tourney begins tomorrow, and Sir Raoul has promised that Ned will be his squire. I’ll...I’ll not hazard that for the sake of one day. If Sir Raoul is angered, he might change his mind.’

Sober grey eyes captured hers. ‘You swear you’ll speak to me if he bullies you?’

Gwenn nodded. She had not been able to mention this to Ned, but telling Alan had eased her mind. That was what she liked about Alan. He would flirt with her, but the moment he sensed she was uneasy, he would stop. Alan le Bret was sensitive. The discovery pleased her.

***

Ned crept late to bed that night, and before he fell asleep he told Gwenn that he had prevailed upon Sir Raoul to reserve her a place on the Duchess of Brittany’s dais, near to her ladies-in-waiting. He seemed to regard this as something of a coup.

Gwenn was not at all sure she wanted to watch the tournament. She put her disquiet down to the fact that she did not want to watch any sort of a fight, even a regulated one. She had seen all the fighting she ever wanted to see at Kermaria.

‘Ask for Lady Juliana,’ Ned said, ‘Sir Raoul’s fiancée.’

‘Sir Raoul has a fiancée?’ Gwenn asked, momentarily startled out of her feeling of unease. Alan caught her eye, and winked. She hunched a shoulder on him and tried to ignore him.

‘Oh, aye,’ Ned gave a jaw-cracking yawn, ‘a lovely, gracious lady, they’re to be married at Christmas. God, but I’m tired.’ Another yawn, and Ned slung a heavy arm over Gwenn’s waist. ‘Ask for Lady Juliana. She’s been told to expect you. She will make sure you have a good view...’

Ned’s voice trailed off, and Gwenn guessed he was already asleep. She wasn’t sure she wanted a good view. A good view of what? Another bloodbath?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A little before dawn, the sky was a speckled tapestry of pale, fragile stars. In the jousting field, the heralds were up before the birds, rubbing sleep-dazed eyes as they scurried to and fro across the arena. There was always another last-minute task to complete. It was still dark enough for them to need the torches set at intervals along the perimeter fence, and golden flames streamed from the iron stands like maidens’ favours in a gentle, gusting wind. The wind brought with it the fragrance of enough fresh-baked bread to feed an army.

Indeed an army was encamped round the field. Men had tramped there from Gascony, there were knights from the Aquitaine, knights from Toulouse, there were even a group of swarthy-complexioned young bloods come from as far afield as Navarre. There were people from Brittany. Fortune-hunters had come in their droves from every corner of Christendom. There were duchesses, ladies, women and whores. There were princes, dukes, and lords; there were beggars and pedlars, cutthroats and thieves – an ill-assorted army, whose aim was, since it was peacetime, to polish rusty war skills. And if it should chance that blood was let, then so much the better.

The Church might send its bishops to mouth the official line, which was to rail against the tournies as a terrible waste of life and limb. His Holiness the Pope might regret the loss of life, might worry that the tournament was used to settle ancient feuds, but these clerical, other-worldly, opinions were ignored. In the main, the view was that a drop of judicious blood-letting never harmed any army. On the contrary, it made eyes all the keener, and hands took more care. In England, the Church’s official line was heeded. Here in France it was disregarded. Besides, everyone knew that the Bishop of Paris had a place reserved for him on the royal stand.

The participants lived in the hope that they would be among the victors – a tournament could be a lucrative source of income for the successful knight. It was designed to be similar to a war, in that a captured knight would have his harness and his horse taken by the victor. Since for many knights their warhorse represented all their wealth, this could be disastrous; and, as if the loss of their horse was not enough, the captured knight was also expected to negotiate a ransom to free himself. For the landless knight with no revenues, a tourney offered chances of riches, and at this one, the largest to be held in a decade, the pickings would be rich indeed. But it was not easy, the risk of great losses was high. Waldin St Clair had made a dazzling career at the jousts, but not many knights had his skill or stamina.

The sun climbed. Its long, bright rays tumbled over the fences and ran across the sand that, ominously, had been sprinkled on the jousting field. One by one, the stars winked out. The torches were doused. The rest of the army woke, crawled to their tent flaps, and squinted at the sky.

Swallows soared over the fields and woods around Paris. As the shadows shortened on the river of primrose sand in the lists, the birds, unconscious that this was to be an arena of war, saw only a place where they could find food. By the time their flight carried them over the encampment, the city of tents was deserted, left to derelicts and strays foraging silently among upturned cooking pots. Tent flaps and pennons trailed listlessly in a slack breeze. Having scooped insects from the air over the encampment, the swallows flew over the sand in the lists.