A couple of bow shots ahead, Gwenn could see beeches and ash trees stretching over the Swale. She could hear the water brawling over the rocky bed as it surged through the dale towards the gully where the waterfall bubbled and frothed like so much brown ale.

Someone gave a shout, and she whirled round. A lone horseman on a great grey was cutting across the pasture; the horse’s hoofs were gouging scoops of emerald turf and throwing them high in the air.

Her mouth went dry. It was not Firebrand, but at this distance Gwenn was unable to make out whether the horseman was fair or dark. Sunlight sparkled on a shiny helmet. Her heart dropped to her belly. A long, fair beard tumbled across a wide, mail-clad chest and the canon’s words came back to her. Fair as an angel and fierce as St Michael.

Stricken with panic, she whirled towards the river, desperate for somewhere to hide, but she would never reach the beech trees in time. She could not outrun that brute of a horse. She halted, turned, and stood her ground. The worst the Viking could do was kill her, and death no longer frightened her, for out of her spinning thoughts one single strand stood stark and clear. The worst had already happened...

Since Gwenn’s arrival, Agnes had expressed a desire to live out the first few days of her grief quietly. Apart from Gwenn’s lonely dawn rides, they had only left the farm to go to Easby village, where they had conversed with the White Canons, no one else. To Gwenn’s knowledge, the only person in Richmond to know she was lodged at Sword Point was Alan; and the only way the Norseman could have found her so quickly after seeing the White Canon was if Alan had betrayed her. Alan must have betrayed her. Set against this, nothing was important; not her life, not even – may God forgive her – the life of the babe in her belly. Gwenn had wanted to trust Alan, had wanted him to be an honourable man. So much for her dreams. She loved a ruthless bastard of a man and he had betrayed her.

Would the Norseman torture her to find out where she had put the gemstone? Would he share the proceeds with Alan?

The horse, a stallion, thundered up to her. The Viking hauled on his reins, and the beast came to a shuddering halt. Hot, horsey breath fanned her face.

‘Well met, Mistress Fletcher,’ Otto Malait flung himself to the ground and dived at her throat. ‘I’ve been scouring all England for you.’

***

Outside Sword Point Farm, Alan dismounted gingerly, groaning in relief when his feet touched firm ground. He had a hangover, and every step of the road from Richmond had set a hammer beating on the anvil of his brain.

He tethered Firebrand to a bay tree in his aunt’s overgrown herb garden. The door was ajar. He rapped his knuckles on it, and the noise made him flinch. His nerves were shredded that morning, and he only had himself to blame. He had run into old drinking companions the evening before and had been drawn into lengthy reminiscences around the forge with his friends and his stepfather. He and Ivon were fully reconciled, and during the course of the evening, much ale had been drunk, and much wine. ‘It’s the combination that’s the killer,’ Alan muttered to himself, angry at his own stupidity.

There was no response from the farmhouse. Agnes was growing deaf. Wincing, Alan knocked once more, and raised his voice, ‘Agnes? Gwenn?’ His throat was as gritty as a mason’s file.

‘In here, Alan. Come straight in.’

Agnes was climbing painstakingly down the stairs from the loft. Alan helped her down the last few rungs. ‘I thought you moved your bed downstairs because you find the stairs a trial.’

Agnes smiled. ‘I do find them a trial.’

Alan led his aunt to the trestle and pulled out a bench for her. ‘You should ask Gwenn if you need something down from the loft. Where is she?’

‘Gone to the river. Didn’t you spot her from the road?’

‘No.’ Alan rubbed sore eyes. ‘I can hardly see out this morning.’

‘Good night, was it, nephew?’

Alan groaned, sank onto the bench, and closed his eyes.

‘Alan, I think you should go and see if Gwenn is safe.’

Weary grey eyes peered past hooded lids. ‘Why shouldn’t Gwenn be safe? She’s only gone to the river.’

‘No, Alan. I think you should go. Something has happened. It’s connected with that blessed statue. She rushed in here talking about messengers from Normandy.’

Her nephew’s head shot up. ‘Messengers from Normandy? Who?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

Alan caught her wrist. ‘Think, Aunt, exactly what did she say?’

‘A White Canon told her a horseman rode in from Dieppe, someone she knew in Vannes. He has been asking questions. Gwenn took the figurine to the river and... Alan?’

The door cracked against its frame, and seeing that she was speaking to an empty room, Agnes shook her head and smiled.

Charging into the yard, Alan remembered his sword. In his befuddled state that morning, he had jammed it under his pack at the back of the saddle. Cursing the few seconds’ delay, he dragged it out, buckled it into place, and flung himself on Firebrand. The farmhouse was surrounded with a split-rail fence to keep the White Canons’ sheep from the cottage garden, and though it was down in places, his route was barred by a gate. Alan dug in his spurs. The courser cleared the gate with ease, and then they were galloping over Swaledale’s springy turf, noses pointed to the river.

The greensward sloped gently away from them. At the bottom, in front of the trees, two figures were struggling. A hulking great warhorse with its reins slack about its head placidly cropped the grass. It was the horse that betrayed to Alan the identity of the mysterious visitor from Normandy. The animal was past its best, a lanky grey, long in the bone, and he recognised it. Otto Malait favoured that horse.

Alan spurred Firebrand and was carried down the hill faster than the wind. Of all people, he wished it were not Otto Malait.

He was almost there, and not a heartbeat too soon, for the Viking’s fingers were a vice round Gwenn’s throat. Her face was puce. She must have knocked Malait’s helmet off, for it lay on the grass, next to the Stone Rose which had been separated from its stand. The wooden shards lay in the grass at Gwenn’s feet. The drawstring pouch was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where is it, girl?’ Otto shook her, easing his grip on her throat to allow her to speak. She hung like a child’s rag doll from his giant’s hands, and let out a groan. Otto renewed his grip, and weakly she tried to free herself.

Alan wanted to cry out, to shriek at Malait to release her, but he urged Firebrand on and bit on his tongue. Malait had his back to him and did not appear to have heard him. The Norseman was wearing a mail tunic, but his arms were unprotected. Alan had the element of surprise on his side, and he must make the most of it, for if he did not, Malait would not scruple at holding Gwenn as a hostage against him.

Thanking God that all his wits did not appear to have been drowned in last night’s ale, Alan gripped his sword and bent low over his saddle. If he could charge past the Norseman and make a pass as he did so... It was a coward’s strike. It was not the sort of blow that an honourable man would make, but what choice did he have?

He was almost on them, and with a sick sense of dread he saw Gwenn’s hands go slack and her arms swing loose at her sides. Gwenn had lost consciousness. Legs hugging Firebrand’s barrel chest, Alan pointed his sword. A dozen yards to go... nine... six... three...

At the last moment, Otto started, and swung round. The pale eyes bulged. He dropped Gwenn and leaped sideways, but he was not fleet enough and Alan’s sword caught him a glancing blow on his unmailed arm. Wheeling Firebrand round, Alan did not pause to let him recover, but charged again. Otto snatched out his sword and backed to where Gwenn lay senseless on the grass.