Yolande moved her face to within a hand span of her daughter’s. ‘Aye. Just so. But I do not think that Alan le Bret is cast in the same mould as Ned Fletcher, and I’d be grateful if you would tell me what you were talking about when I stumbled across you just now.’

Gwenn lifted finely structured hands. ‘Nothing much, Mama. He was asking about the Stone Rose.’

Her mother’s green gaze sharpened. ‘Was he, indeed? How interesting.’ Yolande rose, and drawing back the curtain screen, peered into the solar. It was empty. ‘Listen attentively, Gwenn, I’ve something to discuss with you, and I want you to swear to me, on your honour, which I know means much to you, that you’ll never breathe a word of this to anyone, not even to your father or brother.’

Round-eyed, Gwenn stared at her mother.

‘This secret is not one for men,’ Yolande murmured. ‘Do I have your promise?’

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘Good. Now hear me out, and afterwards I’ll tell you my plan for ridding this house of the vermin that has slunk into it unasked.’

***

Later, Gwenn escaped to tend her grandmother’s grave.

On the glebeland, sparrows were quarrelling in an old yew tree, and in one of the apple trees which edged the graveyard a blackbird was singing. Gwenn plucked the faded primroses and cowslips from their pot and arranged fresh blossoms, turning her mother’s words over in her mind. All at once, a prickling at the back of her neck warned her that she was being observed. Out of the tail of her eye she saw someone slip out of the chapel to crouch in the shadows of the porch. She caught sight of long, straggling hair as yellow as the cowslips in her grandmother’s vase, and gained an impression of muscle-bound bulk. Her stomach knotted. Imprinted in her mind was the face and form of the Norseman, and though Gwenn had not seen this prowler’s features, she knew him to be male, and that glimpse, brief as it had been, had reminded her of him.

‘Who’s there?’ Her voice was sharp with alarm.

The figure shrank back. With slow deliberation, Gwenn climbed to her feet and shook out the skirts of her gown. Ned Fletcher had hair as bright as that when the sun was on it, she reminded herself. But the man in the doorway had been standing in the shade, and Ned Fletcher did not wear his hair so long.

The blackbird stopped singing.

As fast as her feet would carry her, Gwenn sped across the grass and through the arch in the graveyard wall. The iron gate clanged behind her, and she did not pause for breath until she had scrambled up the steps and catapulted into the hall.

At that hour, it was filled with people. Her mother was addressing Joel, the cook. Her father and brother were deep in conversation at one end of a trestle, and at the other sat Alan le Bret. He had been given employment teaching one of the village freemen recently drafted into Jean’s service how to keep an edge on a sword. A whetstone had been brought up from the vault, and a pair of crutches was handy at his elbow.

‘Where’s Fletcher?’ Gwenn demanded of the room at large.

‘Here, Mistress Gwenn.’ Ned Fletcher detached himself from the knot of men by the fireplace. ‘What’s amiss?’

If...if you’re here,’ she stretched her eyes wide, ‘who’s sneaking around the chapel?’

Jean and Raymond jumped up, and Jean barked out a series of commands. ‘Raymond, take Fletcher and search the chapel. Take your arms, and bring any loiterer here. At the double. Move!’

Raymond and Ned clattered out.

Yolande had assumed Alan le Bret’s interest in the Stone Rose was proof he was in league with de Roncier, but she was suddenly assailed by doubts. Hand smoothing her high forehead, she thought rapidly. Was le Bret working for himself, or was he feeding information to de Roncier’s scavengers piece by piece? For an instant the mercenary’s swarthy features had registered surprise – he had been as startled as any by Gwenn’s announcement. Now he was sitting stiffly at the board, head cocked to one side, listening. How slow I have been, Yolande chastised herself. It was plain as a pikestaff that he would only be working for himself. Aye, that glove fitted him more closely. Alan le Bret would own no man his master for long. ‘Count de Roncier is having us watched,’ Yolande said, voicing the words which hung on everyone’s lips. And for the routier’s benefit she added a plaintive, ‘Oh, Jean, will this nightmare never end?’

‘Peace, woman.’ Jean turned to his daughter, who was gazing at her mother in the oddest manner. ‘What precisely did you see, Gwenn?’

‘Someone lurking in the chapel porch.’

‘Could you describe him?’

‘No...at least... I couldn’t be sure. He was a big man, with hanks of straw-coloured hair. I...I got the impression he’d been there for some time. I hoped it was Fletcher. But–’

‘Fletcher’s been here this past half hour.’

‘Sir,’ Gwenn’s voice came out shrill, and catching the mercenary’s gaze on her, she toned it down, ‘I pray I’m mistaken, but I’m afraid it might have been the Norseman I saw on the day of the fire. Remember? I told you about him.’

Yolande gasped and crossed herself. ‘I knew it,’ she said, in accents of doom. ‘De Roncier will be content with nothing less than our blood.’

Raymond charged through the door. ‘Nothing,’ he announced, with a studied glance in Gwenn’s direction. ‘The bird, if there was one, has flown.’

‘There was someone!’ Gwenn burst out. ‘There was!’

The knight strode to the door. ‘I’ll have a scout around myself. Fletcher, accompany me.’

Gwenn’s brown eyes burned as she looked at her brother. ‘Why don’t you believe me, Raymond?’

Raymond did not disbelieve his sister, in fact he believed her only too well. But he loved Gwenn, and had observed the invisible scars the fire had left on her. Her confidence wavered whenever she left the hall. She walked Kermaria with fear perched on her shoulders. Raymond wanted to free her from her terrors, even if that meant lying to her. ‘I’m sure you think you saw someone, Gwenn.’

‘Don’t take me for a birdbrain,’ Gwenn snapped. ‘You were there when the mob went wild; you know I saw someone threatening Grandmama in the blaze; and you know as well as I, that de Roncier is at the root of our trouble.’ And then she clamped her mouth shut, for she could say no more without breaking her promise to her mother.

Alan had been taking a keen interest in the conversation, but at this point Raymond steered his sister aside.

‘Hell and damnation,’ Alan muttered, frustrated. He’d give a week’s pay for more information. Diligently polishing the blade of his sword, he stretched his ears. If Malait was scouting around, then he must make his move soon.

The concubine’s children raised their voices.

‘Sorry, Gwenn,’ he heard Raymond apologising. ‘I only wanted to reassure you.’ With a flourish, the boy gave his sister a charming bow that Alan recognised was a copy of his father’s. ‘Can I make amends? I’m going for a ride. Would you like to come? You could do with a few hours in the saddle, you’ve the most appalling seat.’

‘Don’t be rude,’ Gwenn answered. ‘You’ve had more practice than I. The only ride I’ve had in years was when we came here. And how would you be with Katarin wriggling about in your arms?

‘Pax. Pax. Forget I ever spoke. Can you come?’

Gwenn pulled a face of regret. ‘I’m sorry. I promised Mama I’d help mend the linen. Most of it’s in ribbons. Where are you going?’

‘I thought I might explore the forest.’

Gwenn positioned herself so she had an unobstructed view of Alan. ‘When are you going to retrieve Grandmama’s statue, Raymond?’ she asked, innocently. The mercenary’s head was downbent over his sword, guiding it to the whetstone; but as she spoke his fingers went white on hilt and blade. She smiled.

‘Oh, Jesu, I’d forgotten all about that cursed thing,’ Raymond said.