Jean nodded, realising that it would be good for all of them to work hard that day. It would take their minds off their grief. ‘She can have Raymond.’

Raymond was idly carving a piece of wheat bread into a ball. He groaned, and flung down his eating knife. ‘Cleaning? Me? But that’s women’s work.’

Jean’s brows snapped together. ‘You’ll do as you’re bidden, my boy. There are heavy barrels down there. You don’t expect your sister to move them on her own, do you?’

‘No, sir.’ Raymond picked up his knife, stuck it in his belt, and rose reluctantly.

‘You can take that new lad, Ned Fletcher. He’ll lend a hand.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Raymond beckoned Ned Fletcher over.

Yolande watched the young Saxon that Jean had sworn in the night before and wondered about him and his companion, Alan le Bret. This fair one looked as though he could be trusted. She watched him spring to her daughter’s side, ready and eager to lift the trapdoor for her. There was no deviousness in that young man’s nature, she was sure of that. She would raise no objections to his being part of Jean’s company. But she could not say the same of Alan le Bret in view of what Raymond had told her of his possible involvement with the mob.

Alan’s pallet was pulled up before the fire, and at the moment he was watching Gwenn as she held a taper to a candle lantern. Yolande did not feel competent to assess his character. She was grateful to him for saving her daughter, but there was something about him that made her uneasy. However, he could not do much harm in his present condition. He could stay while he mended, but she would watch him like a hawk, and at the first sign of trouble she would have Jean remove him.

The wick of the candle Gwenn was lighting was damp and it was a moment before it sputtered into life. Ned held out his square, blunt-fingered hand. ‘Let me take that, mistress,’ he said. ‘I’ll go first. You never know what might lurk below.’ He took the lantern and peered down the steps.

‘I expect there’ll be rats, Gwenn said matter-of-factly as Ned began descending, ‘but I’m not afraid of rats.’ Tucking up her skirts, she picked her way after him with care, for the steps were masked by shadows and coated with a slippery film of damp moss. Raymond dragged his heels.

Halfway into the shadowy depths Ned stopped and rolled large eyes at Gwenn. He lowered his voice as though he were afraid. ‘There might be worse than rats in here...’

Gwenn laughed, rather to her surprise. That morning, when they had buried her grandmother, she could not have imagined laughing in a hundred years. ‘Worse than rats?’ she said, and feigned fear.

‘There might be evil spirits from the past,’ Ned made his voice hollow and it echoed round the stone vaults, ‘waiting for a young maiden, ready to put her under some terrible enchantment.’

Gwenn let out a mock shriek.

‘But I’ll save you, mistress, never fear.’

Ned leapt lightly down the last of the steps and as he turned to see her safely down, Gwenn’s heart warmed to him.

Raymond joined them. He had brought another lantern and cast disparaging eyes around the undercroft. It was a cool, rectangular room, divided in two by a row of heavy round pillars. It had barrel vaulting. Along the walls, rows of storage jars were buried under tangles of cobwebs. A dusting of grit had fallen down from the ceiling. In the corners, where the lantern light could not reach, there was a scuffling sound. There really were rats down here, and mice. They would have to be ferreted out.

Raymond’s nose wrinkled in a lordly sneer. ‘Phew, it stinks! A fellow can hardly breathe.’

Gwenn found herself exchanging amused glances with Ned. ‘It’s been closed up for years, Raymond. What do you expect? Now the trapdoor’s open, it will soon freshen up.’

‘It might be an idea to have air vents made,’ Ned suggested, examining the storeroom walls. ‘I should think here,’ he shouldered a disintegrating casket aside, and indicated a spot near the top of the wall where the vaulting began, ‘and here.’

‘That sounds a very good idea, Ned,’ Gwenn said, smiling. ‘We can mention it to Sir Jean.’

Ned smiled back at her. Raymond, she noticed, was moodily tapping a wine barrel. ‘Empty,’ he pronounced in gloomy accents. He moved on to the next, and tapped that. ‘This is empty too.’

Gwenn and Ned grinned at each other, and Gwenn’s heart lightened. It would be good to have someone near her age to talk to apart from Raymond.

‘Where do we start, mistress?’ Ned asked.

‘More lanterns I think, and brooms. Then we must sort out–’

‘Hell,’ Raymond cut in, ‘there’s no wine here at all, save what Sir Jean brought with him.’

‘Isn’t there, Raymond?’ Gwenn said, sweetly. ‘Then hadn’t you better lift those empty caskets out of here for scalding and repair? They can be refilled then.’

Reluctant to take orders from his sister, Raymond moved slowly. Ned was there before him, a casket under either arm as he headed up the stairs. ‘I’ll fetch more light, mistress,’ he said cheerfully. Raymond would not be much help that day, Gwenn realised, but Ned Fletcher would, and willingly too. She liked him, very much.

***

One fine morning about two weeks later, Gwenn was leaving the hall to lay fresh flowers on her grandmother’s grave, when Alan addressed her from his place by the fire. ‘Mistress Gwenn?’

‘Yes?’ Curious, for the routier never spoke to her except when she was tending his leg, Gwenn drifted over.

‘I was wondering if you could spare a moment or two,’ he said courteously.

‘Is your leg troubling you? The bandages chafe?’

‘No, not at all.’ He raised smoky eyes to hers. ‘Would you mind if I talked to you about your grandmother, mistress, or would it upset you?’

‘It wouldn’t upset me.’

‘Good. I’ve been thinking.’ His lips curved wryly. ‘Lying here all day, I have little else to occupy my time, and there’s something I’ve been itching to ask you.’

‘Yes?’ Gwenn felt shy and gawky when Alan smiled at her.

‘In Vannes, on the day of the fire, your grandmother made mention of a stone rose. What is it, mistress?’

‘A statue of Our Lady.’

Alan let his breath out in a soft sigh. He had thought as much. He threw another smile at the girl, who seemed to like them, and watched a delightful flush steal across her cheeks. ‘Was it precious to her?’

‘I suppose so.’ Gwenn’s voice went croaky. She would have liked to ask why her grandmother’s statue fascinated him so, but she seemed to have lost control of her tongue. When Alan le Bret smiled, his eyes were as clear as a mountain brook dancing over grey stones, yet disturbing, too.

‘You are sorry that a keepsake of your grandmother’s was destroyed in the fire?’

‘It wasn’t destroyed. But what does that matter? Grandmama’s dead. What good did the Stone Rose do her?’

Alan clicked his tongue. ‘Careful, sweet Blanche, that borders on blasphemy. Your mother’s entered the hall, and she must have heard you, because she’s frowning.’

Yolande beckoned her daughter. ‘Gwenn, come upstairs.’

***

‘Here.’ Yolande waved Gwenn onto her bed and drew the dingy curtain across the alcove’s entrance. ‘Sit down. It’s high time you and I had a little talk.’

Thinking that she must have committed some sin and was about to be rebuked for it, Gwenn scoured her mind for her misdeed. ‘My apologies, Mama. Should I not have been talking to Alan le Bret?’

Yolande touched her daughter’s arm. ‘Naturally, you must converse with the man seeing as you have taken him under your wing.’

‘I felt obliged, Mama, because he saved me, and it would be churlish to refuse to speak to him.’

Accepting this, Yolande inclined her head. ‘I know. You are a girl who likes to honour her debts, but I trust you are not blind to that man’s nature.’

‘He’s a mercenary. As is his kinsman, Ned Fletcher.’