‘They take forever,’ Yolande forced the words through her teeth. ‘Why don’t they hurry?’

‘The litter slows them down.’ Jean could see that his eldest daughter was in a desperate state. She wore a travelling cloak that must be borrowed, for it swamped her. The hem of her dress was ripped, her hair was unkempt and plastered to her cheeks by wind and rain. She wore no veil, and her face was scratched and black with dirt. Black?

‘Jesu, Jean, look at Gwenn!’ Yolande pulled free and stumbled down the broken steps. ‘Gwenn!’

‘Mama!’ Katarin wriggled in her sister’s arms, and reached out for her. ‘Mama!’

Yolande lifted her youngest from Gwenn’s lap and all but squeezed the breath out of her. ‘Come here, darling. Give Mama a kiss. That’s better.’ Scrutinising Katarin, Yolande discovered the child did not seem unduly distressed. Relaxing, she transferred Katarin to her hip. A glance at the litter relieved her mind further, for it did not contain Izabel, only a stranger. The man’s coal-black hair was streaked with sweat, and like her eldest daughter his features were obscured by a mask of what looked like soot. Under the filth, severe pain cut lines in his face. One of his legs was in a crude splint. ‘Where’s Izabel? Where’s my mother?’

A huge tear rolled down Gwenn’s grubby cheek and, lips trembling, she looked appealingly at her brother. Raymond dismounted. A look of bewilderment blurred the handsome lines of his face. His bright green eyes were glassy with shock.

Yolande felt as if she had been plunged into a trough of icy water.

‘Mama...’ Her son ran a hand – a shaking hand – round the back of his neck. ‘Mama...’

‘Raymond, why won’t you look at me?’ Following the direction of her son’s gaze, Yolande saw the coffin.

‘Mama, I’m sorry.’ Raymond’s voice shook. ‘There was a fire. The house is gone. And Grandmère...’

Clutching Katarin to her breast, Yolande’s knees buckled. One of Jean’s arms whipped round her waist, and Katarin was eased into the crook of his other.

‘No. No!’ Yolande backed away. ‘I don’t believe it, I won’t believe it!’

Someone stepped into the unhappy circle in the middle of the yard, a hardy young man with a shock of fair hair and pleasant, open features which were easy to read. Sympathy filled his blue eyes. ‘Madame,’ the young man said, and his accent was strange to Yolande, ‘I am very sorry. We did all we could, but we could not get her out. We got your daughters out, but the roof caved in.’

‘Roof? Caved in?’ Yolande did not like the compassion in those blue, blue eyes. It told her that Izabel was truly gone. ‘No,’ she muttered fiercely. ‘Not now, when we have finally come here.’ In Kermaria, Izabel could have lived free of the shame that had shadowed most of her unhappy life. Desperately, Yolande willed the young man to vanish back into the mist, but he remained large as life, feet planted firmly on the ground, and his beautiful eyes were round with fellow-feeling. She would never be able to look at anyone with blue eyes again without remembering this day. She lifted a hand to block out the sight of those eyes, and gripped her daughter’s bridle for support.

‘Face it,’ someone rasped from the ground by her feet.

It was the stranger in the litter. There was no compassion anywhere on that dark visage. Yolande looked at his eyes which were a drab grey and dark with pain, but pitiless. Strangely, she found it easier to regard this man who gave no quarter than the other, compassionate one. ‘I...I beg your pardon?’

‘Ned’s telling the truth.’ His voice lacked the foreign ring of the younger man’s. ‘Face it. The whole street was a mass of fire. The old woman’s gone. Be thankful we got your daughters out.’

Jean surveyed the man on the litter. ‘Your name?’

‘Alan le Bret.’

‘Master?’

The man paused before replying. ‘None, at present.’

‘Is it true, Alan le Bret, that Izabel Herevi is dead?’

Alan, whose skin was ashen under his black mask, grunted assent. ‘Aye. Izabel Herevi sleeps her last sleep in yonder box.’

Yolande gave a soft moan and stepped blindly towards the coffin.

Jean thrust Katarin at his son. ‘Raymond, take your sisters inside, and see the man’s hurts are seen to, will you? I shall look to your mother.’

***

Having settled Katarin with Klara in the relative comfort of one of the alcoves off the solar, Gwenn elected to tend to the routier herself. His litter had been dragged into the hall downstairs, and she was examining a willow basket the serving woman had told her was stocked with bandages and salves, while Raymond nosed around the solar.

‘God, what a midden of a place,’ Raymond said.

Gwenn looked up. Her brother was picking flakes of limewash from the damp-stained walls. Gwenn had been so full of grief for her grandmother that she hadn’t had eyes for Kermaria. ‘I expect the walls will dry out when the fire’s been going awhile,’ she said.

‘For two pins I’d return to Vannes,’ Raymond continued. ‘I have friends there. I can’t see that there’s going to be much going on here. The nearest tavern must be three miles away.’

‘You can’t return, Raymond. None of us can, not now.’

The shock was back on Raymond’s face, and for a moment Gwenn thought he was about to break down. ‘I know.’ His voice cracked. ‘It’s not something that’s easily forgotten, is it?’ His voice strengthened. ‘I know de Roncier’s to blame. One day, I’ll make him pay, Gwenn, I swear it.’

Gwenn’s eyes filled. ‘Revenge won’t bring Grandmama back.’

Her brother strode over the rushes and gave her a rough hug. ‘Don’t cry. That snake’ll pay, I’ll make certain of that, if it’s the last thing I do.’

Her brother was offering her the only comfort he could, and Gwenn nodded. Folding a linen cloth, she added it to the basket of medicaments.

‘Why are you soiling your hands tending to that villain?’ Raymond demanded abruptly. ‘Let someone else do it. Let that wench, Klara, see to him.’

‘No. I want to help him. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead.’

‘I don’t trust him. He could be working for de Roncier.’

‘I don’t trust him either, but he did save me, and I confess I’m curious. That day we were chased, I saw him.’

‘What? In the mob?’

Gwenn nodded. ‘He was the first to throw a stone.’

‘Mother of God!’ A dark flush mottled Raymond’s cheeks. ‘And you want to bind his wounds as though he were some unsung hero! I’d steer well clear of him if I were you. That man’s a bucket of trouble. I shall mention that you saw him in the mob to Mama.’

Gwenn grimaced in the direction of the spiral stairs. ‘He couldn’t hurt a fly at the moment.’

Making an impatient sound, Raymond swung away. ‘And what about when he’s healed? What then? Believe me, sister, there lies a wolf that’s not to be tamed.’

She dug in her heels. ‘I don’t want to tame him, I only want to heal him. It’s a debt I owe him, for my life.’

Her brother flapped her out with a weary hand. ‘Oh, go and tend your wounded wolf, Gwenn. But don’t come crying if he bites.’

She picked up the basket. ‘I won’t.’

‘The sooner he’s better, the sooner we’ll be rid of him,’ he observed sourly.

Gwenn smiled back from the doorway. ‘There is that. Raymond?’

‘What now?’

‘Father Mark said the man has not been born who cannot be redeemed.’ Basket tucked securely under her arm, she stepped quietly into the stairway.

‘Christ on the Cross!’ Raymond exploded. ‘Women! Will they never learn?’

***

Alan was stretched out on a pallet close to the fire in the hall, thinking that a drink would ease the throbbing in his leg. Someone was walking down the stairs, and he glanced up to assess his chances of persuading whoever it was to see to his needs. It was the girl, Gwenn Herevi.

‘I’ve come to look at your leg,’ she announced, clutching a basket close to her breast.