‘What’s the matter?’

She was an observant girl. ‘The mud’s all churned up.’

‘It probably rained here this morning,’ she suggested, helpfully. ‘It did at home, early–’

Alan cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand. ‘I’m sure that it rained, but look at those tracks. Many horses have passed this way.’

‘So?’

He lifted his head, unaware that the grey of his eyes matched the pewter-coloured clouds massing on the horizon. ‘The weather’s the least of our problems, mistress. Doesn’t it strike you as strange that so many horses should have come this way this morning?’

Gwenn Herevi gave the much-furrowed ground her full attention. ‘I thought the path led only to the Old Ones’ temples. Raymond said no one ever came here.’

‘Exactly.’ Alan grasped her horse’s bridle.

‘What are you doing?’

Alan swung stiffly from his saddle and led their horses into the hawthorn-edged lane, favouring his good leg.

Gwenn wondered what he was planning to do, and when he would show his true colours.

‘I advise a careful approach.’ He found a gap in the rough hedge and dived through it, dragging the animals after him.

The blossom-laden branch of a wild pear drooped over the hawthorn, and Gwenn doubled over to avoid being scratched. They found themselves on the edge of a series of peasants’ strips. The spring planting had been done and already the young shoots were sprouting, fresh and green.

‘Get down, mistress. I’m leaving the horses here and continuing on foot. I can’t afford to take any risks. Your father would have my hide if you got hurt.’

‘Why should anything happen?’ Le Bret had not struck Gwenn as a man to sound the alarm unnecessarily, and his wariness frightened her. Was it genuine, or was it a blind to mask some darker design? She had decided to risk riding with the mercenary on impulse and now she wished she had been less rash. Would he hurt her? She did not think so, not when she had mended his leg. She looked at him, but as ever the swarthy face was closed. Her best course was to go along with him and make sure she did not rouse his suspicions. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Who do you think is up there?’

His brows bunched together. ‘God knows. But you can be sure it’s no meeting of peasant farmers. You can see from the prints that these animals have been shod; and judging from the size of the hoofs, a fair number are warhorses.’

Gwenn slid from her mare’s back, and the animal began nosing about in the hedge for the palest, most tender hawthorn shoots. ‘Perhaps we should wait until they have gone?’

‘No.’ Alan was set on discovering what was going on. The knowledge might have a commercial value. The concubine’s daughter would think the worst of him soon enough when he relieved her of the jewel, but illogically, he felt uneasy confessing that he couldn’t afford to ignore something which might prove a source of income in the future. A gust of wind slapped him in the face. In different circumstances, a man could grow fond of a girl like her. ‘I’m for going on now, mistress,’ he said, curtly. ‘Before the storm blows us away. Your brother told me where to look.’ He turned on his heel.

She clutched the hem of his cotte, or over-tunic. ‘What about me?’

‘You’d best stay here.’

‘You’ll come back? You’d not leave me here?’

‘You’ve got the horses.’ He smiled, lopsidedly. ‘Don’t you trust me, mistress?’

The foliage rustled, and Gwenn was alone. She did not believe he had the slightest intention of returning for her. Once he had his hands on the statue, he’d be off faster than the wind – or perhaps not quite that fast, she amended, remembering his stiff leg. But then, as he himself had pointed out, she did have the horses. Maybe he would be back.

Pondering her next move, she ducked behind the hawthorn. Time crawled by. The wind piled up more clouds, and the thin strip of blue sky shrank. Someone sneezed. Someone sneezed? The sound must have come from the direction of the dolmen, but with the wind whistling round her ears, it was hard to be certain. A second sneeze made her jump out of her skin. It came from the other side of the hedge. Dropping the horses’ reins, Gwenn peered through the branches.

Another rider was approaching the dolmen. He was bound to see Alan le Bret. She strained to see who it was, and a cold shiver shot down to her toes. It was the Norseman. He was wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and his pale, deathly eyes were fixed on the waves of mud on the path, as though they were a knotty puzzle he’d like to unravel. Had he been trailing her and le Bret? He reined in level with her.

Her mother wanted le Bret convinced that the gem had been sold, and Gwenn had been confident that she could achieve this safely. Le Bret might be motivated by self-interest, he might be after easy pickings, but he was no murderer, she was sure. He was not as base as he pretended. But this character, she sensed, would be capable of anything.

The Viking’s mount, a scrawny grey, sniffed the wind. Gwenn froze, realising with a sick shock that the animal could in all probability smell her horses. Her mare’s nostrils flared. ‘St Gildas, no!’ She lunged for her mare’s mouth, but she was too late. Her mare’s whinny of welcome coincided with the first crack of thunder and the first drops of rain. The Viking’s light eyes slowly traversed the ruts in the lane. The thunder had drowned out her mare’s neigh. He cast a puzzled look up the lane and pulled on his beard. He had been following their tracks.

Thankful the jumble of hoof prints prevented him from seeing they had gone through the hedge, Gwenn did not stop to consider whether she could trust Alan le Bret. She turned and hared up the field. Another deep rumble rolled across the heavens. She struggled on, following a course parallel to the one le Bret had taken, on the other side of the hedge. The wind drove rain into her face so hard, raindrops felt like hailstones. A fence of crude willow hurdles blocked her path, Gwenn’s gaze skimmed its length. There was no opening. She must get through and find le Bret. The corner then, where hedge married fence. Oblivious of scratching briars, Gwenn forced her way through. Her feet skated on wet grass. A green mound rose before her and, feet slipping and sliding, she scrambled up it. She saw stone steps, a stone lintel, and a muddy entrance passage.

‘Sweet Mary, help me. Let it be the right one.’ And she tumbled into the Old Ones’ temple.

Chapter Ten

She found herself in a dank chamber that was a quiet and as cold as a grave. The lump in her throat was as big as a gull’s egg. ‘Alan...Alan le Bret? Are you there?’ Outside, the storm whirled, but inside, there was only a thick, black, ominous quiet. ‘Le Bret?’ She was alone. She bit her lip. She had picked the wrong dolmen and was caught like a rat in a trap. If the Viking had seen her, and followed her...

Perhaps there was another way out. Her eyes were adjusting to the gloom. There was only one source of light, and that was where she had entered. Feeling her way along wet, rocky walls for another exit, Gwenn skirted the dolmen. She had come full circle when a change in the atmosphere told her she was no longer the only person in this tomb of a place. A shadow fell over her, and something light brushed her arm.

‘Mistress?’

Alan le Bret’s voice. She closed her eyes and made a hasty sign of the cross. ‘Thank God, it’s only you.’

‘Only me?’ There was definite laughter in his voice. ‘Why did you follow me, Mistress Blanche? I thought you were minding the horses.’

‘I...I was afraid. Your friend–’

Steel fingers clamped round her arm. ‘My friend?’

‘Aye. One of your old cronies is following us,’ Gwenn said, trying to prise his hand off her arm.

‘Old crony?’ His tone was as hard as his hold on her flesh.