Ned Fletcher smothered a laugh, but the potboy, Tristan, waiting at Otto’s elbow for his order, was foolish enough to snigger aloud.

‘Get me wine, boy,’ Otto growled. ‘Or mead. Anything but ale. Move.’ Otto’s calloused hand descended to the potboy’s shoulder to twist him round.

‘You’re late, Malait,’ Alan said. ‘The Count beat you to your post this morning.’

‘Oh?’ That’s what le Bret thought. Count François had had him roused before sunrise to confer with him, which was one reason he felt so rough. As to the other reason – the Norseman glanced briefly at the Saxon lad, whose innocent blue eyes were watching him – the boy hadn’t the first idea that he was the reason Otto had dipped too deeply in the barrel last night. This morning Otto’s head felt as though it was compressed in too tight a helmet, but another drink would soon mend that.

Le Bret’s grey eyes were trained on the soot-blackened ceiling. ‘The Count’s up there,’ he said. ‘Counting his coin. He’s sworn to pay up, and he’s had the strongbox carried up.’

‘And a woman too, I’ll be bound.’ Otto scowled. ‘It’s fortunate for the Count that there are men like us prepared to do his work for him while he plays.’

The potboy stumbled up, bearing a tray with an assortment of vessels, variously filled, and all slopping over to make a muddy brown lake on the tray.

Alan passed the Viking the largest vessel. ‘Here’s a drinking horn worthy of Odin himself. You can souse yourself in this today, Malait. You need sweetening. Washeil!’

Rolling a jaundiced eye at his companion-at-arms, Otto thrust the goblet to his mouth.

‘Sweetening?’ Ned asked. ‘What is it?’

‘Mead,’ his cousin informed him, as the Viking drained the cup dry. ‘He’s a bear without it.’

Tristan unloaded his swimming tray and shuffled off.

Emerging from his goblet with mead spreading warmth along his veins, Otto scanned the inn. ‘Tavern’s a morgue today,’ he said, sleeving golden liquid from his beard.

The pedlar, glimpsing his opening, lurched into speech. Conan calculated that if he was especially helpful a large pourboire might be forthcoming. ‘Aye, Captain. It’s like this most mornings, early on. It was only yesterday because of the Black Monk...’ The pedlar became aware that the three pairs of eyes watching him were bored, and his voice trailed off to finish lamely, ‘but of course you know that.’

Alan nodded. ‘Awake now, Malait?’

Otto grunted.

‘Good. Conan informs me that Yolande Herevi and Jean St Clair left Vannes half an hour ago. They had horses waiting, and rode out via the postern gate.’

Otto’s pale eyes bulged as he digested this information. ‘God rot them, don’t tell me the old crone has turned tail too?’ The Count had been most explicit about wanting the statue, which apparently belonged to Izabel Herevi; now Otto would have to chase after them and retrieve the thing – not that he relished the idea of an ambush in broad daylight. He eyed Ned Fletcher and the cups on the table. He could think of far pleasanter ways of spending a morning, but his orders had been specific. Reluctantly, he rose.

‘Where are you off to?’ Alan demanded. ‘If they’ve gone, our task is done.’

The Viking combed blunt fingers through his beard. De Roncier had been most insistent that Alan le Bret was not to be in on this. ‘Er...best to tail them, make sure that they’re off for good.’

‘They are,’ the pedlar assured him. ‘I kept my ears pinned to the shutters; St Clair told his woman he was sending someone back for her travelling chests. I heard one being pulled down the stairs. Made a hell of a row. Thump, thump, th–’

‘Thank you, Conan,’ Alan cut in, ‘we get the drift.’

‘What about the old woman?’ Otto demanded.

The pedlar’s protruding belly rumbled. He scratched it and helped himself to some bread. On the floor, the dirty white cur pricked up its ears and shuffled closer. ‘As I heard it, she’s to follow later with St Clair’s bastards.’

‘Relax, Malait,’ Alan said. ‘Vannes will be clear of them by sunset. Sit down and have another drink.’ He slid a cup towards him. ‘You’ve a problem?’

‘No. It’s nothing,’ Otto said, swiftly. ‘I wanted to make sure we’ve carried out our orders.’

‘Exceptional diligence.’

‘Eh?’

The English mercenary smiled thinly, and to Otto’s relief, fell silent.

‘I’ve a confession, Captain Malait.’ Ned Fletcher leaned forwards, blue eyes bright and confiding. ‘I’m glad they’re going without us having a hand in it.’

‘Are you, lad?’ Reseating himself, Otto smiled with what Alan realised was uncommon tolerance.

Alan did not like the way Otto Malait was regarding his cousin, not that he cared how his fellow captain and his cousin took their pleasures. However, he knew his conventional cousin well enough to realise that he would consider an advance from the Viking an abomination. Ned might be one of the softer members of his troop, he might well crave affection, but his cornflower-coloured eyes only ever strayed to the lasses. ‘To tell you the truth, Malait, I’m relieved myself,’ Alan admitted. ‘I intend resigning this day. De Roncier will have to find another captain for my troop.’

‘Resign your commission?’ Ned blurted. His artless eyes were round and full of hurt. ‘You never mentioned it to me.’

‘I’m mentioning it now. I intend pitching my tent elsewhere.’ His cousin looked thunderstruck, and Alan felt bound to elaborate. ‘I intended resigning yesterday. You will recall, Ned, we signed on till this quarter day, but as de Roncier seemed disinclined to pay the men until the job was done, I thought I’d see it through.’ Alan saw no reason to mention the additional silver he had been promised.

‘Does the Count know your plans?’

Otto snorted. ‘If I know our captain, he won’t inform de Roncier that he’s not going to renew his contract, until he’s got his grimy paws on his pay. Am I correct?’

A dark brow lifted. ‘I trust our noble Count about as much as I would trust you, Malait.’

Mellowed by his mead, the Viking looked delighted. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

Ned butted in. ‘Alan–’

‘Don’t fret yourself over your pay, Ned. I won’t leave until you’ve got yours.’

‘It’s not that, Alan, but...but...’ Ned stuttered to a halt, scarlet flags flying in his cheeks.

‘Your kinsman’s going to miss you, le Bret,’ Otto drawled, amused. ‘Never mind, I’ll be here to hold his hand.’

The flush deepened on Ned’s cheeks but the innuendo escaped him. ‘But why, Alan? Why leave? You told me yourself that the Count always pays in the end.’

‘I’ve stayed with de Roncier long enough.’ Alan lifted his shoulders. ‘Let’s just say I’m going in search of greener pastures.’

Ned jerked his flaxen head at the ceiling. ‘You don’t like him.’

Alan looked blank. ‘Like de Roncier? What’s liking got to do with it? You don’t have to like a man to work for him.’

‘Don’t you?’

Ned’s gaze could be very penetrating. Exasperated, Alan shook his head, but he held his peace. If his cousin wanted to think he was resigning for moral reasons, then who was he to disabuse him? Wearily, he reached for his ale, and as he did so, he became aware that a hush had fallen over the thin company. Looking up, he was shocked to see the concubine’s daughter brazenly threading her way through the tables. She was swathed in another of those filmy veils which were more fitted to a Saracen’s harem than a tavern in Vannes. This one was sea-green.

The pedlar had seen the girl too, and he was choking on his drink. ‘Look, Captain!’

Alan shrank back to conceal himself, partly behind Otto Malait’s substantial bulk, and partly behind a wooden beam. ‘I’ve seen her,’ he muttered. ‘No. Don’t turn round, Malait. The concubine’s daughter has just flown in.’

‘What? Here?’ Malait turned and looked her up and down.