The dead, granite features looked blank and empty, hideously vacant, not secretive as they should. The Virgin’s sculptor could not have been representing a real woman, for the figurine did not bear the expression of a woman who had lived; instead it had the countenance of a woman who had wandered through life and escaped being touched by it. Her mother’s Virgin was pure, but it was a cold purity that had no place on God’s living earth. Izabel’s Lady had never loved, she had never hated, or laughed, or cried. For the Blessed Virgin to have any value, Yolande thought scornfully, she had to have lived. She had to have suffered – as Our Lord’s real mother had suffered.

Like Izabel, the statue kept the world at a distance. Yolande’s lip curled. ‘Mystic Rose’ indeed. She’d always thought that ‘Stone Rose’ was more apt, particularly in view of the figurine’s hidden purpose. The secret was one which Yolande shared only with her mother. For years she had kept her lover from ferreting it out. It was ironic really, how Jean never failed to mock at her mother’s piety. If only he knew what Izabel’s piety hid from him, and right under his nose.

It was not that Izabel was irreligious. Her mother’s piety was genuine, but piety was not the only reason she guarded the Stone Rose so jealously. Within the statue’s granite heart was lodged a valuable, clear gemstone. It was not large, but its worth was such that it would see Yolande and her children to a safe harbour if needs be. Yolande did not want to sell the gem, for once it had gone she had nothing else to fall back on. Prudence had warned her to keep knowledge of it from her lover. It was not that she mistrusted Jean, but the fewer the people who knew about such a thing, the better. It was a secret for the women of the family, so they could protect themselves and their own. Didn’t the men always see to themselves? Women had a right to look to their safety too.

A draught from the window sent a superstitious shiver racing down Yolande’s neck. Instinctively, she made the sign of the cross.

In the next chamber, Katarin, her youngest, began to cry. Yolande’s face softened. Katarin must come first. She’d deal with her mother later. She moved towards the door.

‘If only I’d known,’ Izabel whispered. ‘If only I could have foreseen...’

Yolande froze mid-stride. ‘I’m surprised you stayed with me, Maman, if it stuck in your gullet so. I always wondered why you never went back to the convent. You would have liked it there. No one forced you to stay with me.’

The veiled head jerked. Izabel’s faded eyes flashed with hurt and indignation. ‘You’re my daughter!’

Yolande smiled her sweetest smile. ‘And Gwenn is mine, or had you forgotten?’

‘She’s my granddaughter. She’ll think badly of you, and of me. I pray you, don’t tell her.’

‘Whining doesn’t suit you, Maman. And I flatter myself that Gwenn would try to understand.’

Katarin had stopped wailing. The chamber door rattled, and the child began a new chant. ‘Mama. Mama. Mama.’

Yolande reached for the latch.

‘Please, Yolande. Promise me.’

Izabel’s fingers clutched at the silk of Yolande’s elongated sleeve. Yolande had spent years protecting her mother from hardship and hurt and the habit was hard to break. She compromised. ‘I’ll do my best to avoid telling her.’

‘Swear it.’

Katarin’s litany increased in volume. ‘Mama. Mama. Mama.’

‘I’ll try. Ma mère, allow me to see to Katarin.’ Suffocated, Yolande prised Izabel’s fingers from the material of her gown, and stalked to the door. She seemed to have spent a lifetime failing to satisfy her mother. She was glad that her children’s wants were more easily met.

***

In the dusty street, Gwenn noticed that the pedlar who had recently taken up a position outside her house was staring at her. She had no money, but nonetheless she glanced briefly at his merchandise. It was tawdry stuff, cheap ribbons and stale-looking honey cakes, and of no interest to her.

A half-starved mongrel cur, whose wiry white fur was worn away with the mange so you could see his ribs, sidled towards the pedlar, and sat down in the earth. His eyes were riveted on the pedlar’s tray. The dog’s black nose twitched and his stumpy tail wagged hopefully. The animal could smell the huckster’s sweetmeats.

‘Piss off!’ the pedlar hissed, aiming a worn boot at the dog, but whether by accident or design the animal sat just outside his reach.

Gwenn grinned. Having satisfied herself that her unauthorised departure had not been noticed, she remembered that her grandmother had drummed into her that a lady should never, never walk abroad unveiled. She twitched the blue silk veil from her belt and fastened it on. She’d be in hot water if they discovered she’d gone out alone, there was no point making matters worse.

The street was busy. A peel of bells rang out the hour and a fluster of pigeons hurtled skywards. Gwenn did not want to be late. She threaded her way through the growing crowd of people in the direction of St Peter’s. The pigeons fluttered down again.

Someone grasped her arm. The pedlar. He waved a fistful of garish ribbon under her nose. ‘You buy, pretty lady?’ he whined, in the local Breton dialect. His fingernails were filthy, and even over the stink of fish and rotting debris which carpeted the cramped thoroughfare, Gwenn could smell him, a sour, unwashed smell.

‘I’ve no money,’ she answered, peeping through her veil as her grandmother had taught her. She read disbelief in the pedlar’s eyes and knew her clothes proclaimed her a liar. The silk her gown was fashioned from had come from Constantinople. She had a real gold ring on her finger. Only last week her mother’s friend, Jean St Clair, had given it to her. Gwenn liked Sir Jean, and wondered if he was her father. But any questions she had posed on that score were invariably parried. Eventually Gwenn had learned not to ask. And because she suspected Sir Jean was her father, she had worn the ring ever since. But it was true that she had no money. Up till now she’d only managed to escape once or twice on her own. Her grandmother who usually accompanied her carried the money. The pedlar’s eyes were cold, they made Gwenn shiver. His clothes were threadbare and shiny with grease, and his hose had need of a darning needle. The sour stench of him was overpowering. Cursing the vanity and thoughtlessness that had made her pick out this particularly opulent dress, Gwenn shook free of the roughened hands and scurried on.

Conan stared after the concubine’s daughter, guilt gnawing at his innards. Why did the wench have to be so young? She could not possibly have hurt anyone. The mongrel was back, its optimistic whine a triumph of hope over experience. ‘Damn you, le Bret,’ Conan muttered. ‘And damn your paymaster.’ The freshness of the girl seemed to cling to Conan’s fingers, but he was too old to start nurturing a tender conscience. His face contorted. Wiping his fingers on breeches that had not seen water since the previous spring, Conan lashed out at the mongrel. This time his boot connected with the dog’s rump, and with a whimper it hopped out of range. Conan spat into the dirt, counted to ten, and then, keeping the girl’s back in sight, he followed at a discreet distance.

Walking quickly, and happily oblivious of her shadow, Gwenn noticed the house martins were back. Last years’ nests had waited out the winter, strung out under the eaves along the whole length of her route, like clumsy grey beads on a string. The birds even nested on St Peter’s Cathedral – known as St Per’s to the local Bretons. The nests faced west, so that the martins’ young, when they hatched, could bask in the glow of the evening sun. The birds’ high-pitched twitterings overrode the hum of human voices below them in the street, a sure sign that more clement weather was on the way.