Alan swallowed down a scathing reply. He had taken a risk with de Roncier’s temper, but he had been fairly confident that he would not have the stomach for killing an unarmed man. The Count hired others to do his dirty work.

‘Look here, le Bret,’ de Roncier had recovered his composure, ‘you’re a good soldier. I know the rank and file respect you, and I don’t want trouble with the men. I’m willing to add half a pound of purest English silver to your pay if you finish the job. You can have it tomorrow.’

‘Half a pound?’ Alan looked deep into his lord’s hazel eyes. If de Roncier was trying bribery, he must be desperate. In Duke’s Tavern, a sergeant had revealed that the Herevis were distant kin to de Roncier. It must be some ancient quarrel over birthright for it to matter so much.

‘Half a pound,’ the Count confirmed with a confident grin.

The form of a young girl in a vivid blue dress sprang into Alan’s mind. Ned was not the only one to dislike this commission. ‘I’m uneasy about this, mon seigneur. It’s a women’s household.’

‘There’s a lad–’

‘That one!’ Alan dismissed Raymond Herevi with a scornful wave of his hand. ‘He’d be no more use in combat than a lute player. I’ll wager he’s never wielded a knife on anything more lively than the meat on his trencher.’

‘Don’t you turn womanish on me, le Bret.’ The Count thudded a heavy fist on the table, and the costly Eastern wine glasses shivered and tinkled. ‘You are beginning to sound like your lily-livered kinsman, Fletcher. What’s his problem? Is he a coward?’

Alan recalled the gangling colt of a boy who had trailed faithfully after him when he had been forced to leave England looking for work, because mercenaries were banned in England. Ned had been all eyes and legs, and it could not have been easy for him to leave everything he held dear to follow his older cousin. ‘No, mon seigneur, Ned Fletcher’s no coward.’

‘I’ll have his tongue nailed to the whipping post so he can’t infect any more of the troop with his high-minded tattle. I’m surprised at you, le Bret. I’d have thought you would be immune.’

‘It is nothing to do with Fletcher,’ Alan said, though privately he wondered if there was a germ of truth in what de Roncier was saying. He did feel torn. He needed the money – who didn’t? – and normally never thought twice about what he did to get it. But when Ned had spoken out, Alan had taken a long, hard look at his lord. And if he had summed up the position truly, the man was no more than a blustering coward out to steal someone else’s birthright.

Alan was no saint that he could sit in judgement over others. He had smothered his conscience years ago in the need for coin. How much lower than that could you sink? That he needed the money was irrelevant. Did his need justify the shedding of blood, the killing of women and children? Alan was tired of dancing to de Roncier’s tune. He wanted out, and here was de Roncier offering to increase his pay. He wished his conscience had remained dormant a little while longer. Perhaps he’d take the extra money and push on to greener pastures...

‘What about St Clair?’ Alan asked. ‘Don’t you anticipate a fight while he protects his woman and children?’

De Roncier’s hair gleamed like fire in the cresset lights. ‘St Clair hasn’t got enough guards to keep the house under surveillance all the time,’ he said. ‘Besides, he won’t be expecting an outright attack on the house.’

Alan brought his brows together. ‘Mon seigneur, I don’t think I’d recommend an outright attack. It’s too obvious. Someone’s bound to recognise–’

The Count swung round, picked up a solid, brass-topped poker and stirred the fire into life. ‘Point taken.’

‘And afterwards, mon seigneur,’ Alan pressed on, ‘don’t you think St Clair will retaliate? Yolande Herevi means much to him. I’ve heard he’s faithful to her.’

Dropping the poker against the iron firedogs with a clang, Count François let out an ugly laugh. ‘The woman’s his harlot, le Bret, his harlot. What man would risk starting a war – and that’s what it would amount to – over a whore?’

Alan looked unconvinced.

‘Remember that half pound of silver, Captain. Can you think of an easier way of earning it?’

Alan couldn’t.

‘All you have to do is see them off.’ The Count raised a russet brow and slapped Alan on the back with a false bonhomie that jarred more than the gesture. ‘Think of it, Captain. Think of the girls...’

‘I’ve better uses for money than to waste it on whores,’ Alan declared flatly. ‘But your offer is tempting.’ Half a pound of silver, plus his pay, was a fortune to a mercenary. He could live off the coined silver for a long time, but what counted most was that de Roncier’s money would give him the freedom to choose a better master. Two years ago, when he had joined de Roncier’s troop, he and Ned had been desperate. He’d have signed his soul to anyone. But with English minted pennies swelling his purse, he’d be rich enough to pick and choose.

‘You’ll do it?’ de Roncier asked. ‘I’ll pay you tomorrow, when it’s over. I’m taking a strongbox to the tavern. I’ll dole out there, when I hear they’ve...gone.’

‘And my troop?’

‘Aye, fry your eyes, I’ll pay your troop too.’

‘I’ll do it.’ And, saluting the man who would be his lord only until the sun set the following night, Alan marched briskly from the solar.

François let his breath go on a sigh. Captain le Bret was an awkward man, and he seemed to have misjudged him. At times the fellow was as hard as tempered steel, but at other times...

Absently François refilled his glass. Le Bret was an enigma. But one thing was clear, he was single-minded; he had come in to get his back pay, and he had left with exactly what he came for – and more. ‘He’s an opportunist,’ François murmured, ‘and as tough as they come.’

He sipped his wine and, grimacing, deposited the glass on the pewter tray. The bottle had been open to the air too long; the contents had soured, and set his teeth on edge. Heading for his bed and his wife, he wondered how long Alan le Bret had been stationed outside the solar door. How much had he heard? There was no telling, but perhaps it would be prudent to despatch Malait with him on the morrow. François nodded to himself. He would charge the Norseman with finding the statue his mother coveted. He need make no mention of the gem. One could not trust routiers. The less they knew, the better.

Wondering if Eleanor would be asleep, François mounted the spiral stairs to his turret bedchamber.

Chapter Six

The bottom of the fishing boat was wet with a combination of dew and seawater that soaked through cloak and breeches to Raymond’s bones. He had counted on being able to sleep on the pre-dawn trip across the bay, but his clothes were too damp, he felt cold, and to add to his miseries the Small Sea was choppy and the rocking motion of the boat gave him mal de mer.

‘How much longer, Edouarz?’ Raymond groaned, lying back so he could try counting stars and forget his nausea.

The closed lantern attached to the mast let out a few shreds of light – just enough to reach the face of the man at the tiller, the boat’s owner. Edouarz glanced briefly at his passenger, and bit back a grin on seeing the boy’s tight lips and greenish tinge. He tipped his head back to examine the sail of his tiny vessel. The patched canvas bellied out with the wind. ‘Half an hour, maybe longer.’

Raymond moaned. The stars danced dizzily. The lights of other fishing vessels returning home with their catch danced too. His stomach heaved.

‘Seems a long time, does it, young sir?’ Edouarz teased. Another groan. The fisherman jerked his thumb at a dark, low-lying mass on their left. ‘That’s Monk’s island,’ he announced. ‘With this wind, we’ll be at Locmariaquer in no time.’

An hour later, Raymond’s feet had been planted firmly on terra firma, his stomach was calmer, and he was in a better state of mind, having persuaded a carter to give him a ride as far as the dolmen. That’s where his rendezvous with the girl was.