Otto gave his former colleague a shadow of a smile. ‘Grazing on your green pastures, le Bret?’ Water trickled down the point of a dagger in the Viking’s left hand. An axe as heavy as Thor’s hammer swung on a thong from his waist, his right hand rested casually on its ivory haft.

Alan’s sword hissed free of its sheath.

Gwenn screamed. ‘No!’ A jagged javelin of lightning flew across the sky. Above them, a cloud burst, sending false tears streaming down the Norseman’s face. ‘No!’ Gwenn’s second cry was lost as the wind worried the branches of a nearby oak.

Roughly, Alan pushed Gwenn behind him and heard her stumble back into the dolmen. ‘What do you want, Malait?’

Blocking the entrance with his brawn, Otto didn’t mince his words, ‘Where’s the statue?’

Alan laughed. ‘Show him, mistress.’

She moved slowly. ‘Here.’

The Norseman grabbed the carving. ‘De Roncier kept me in the dark. I was commanded to look for a holy statue. Enlighten me.’

‘Twist the base from the stone,’ Alan said. There was a splintering noise. ‘No need to break it.’

But he spoke too late. Tossing both statue and wooden shards aside, Otto weighed the sunstone in his hand. ‘Is this it? I’m keeping it.’ He tucked the stone into his pouch, concluding that it had to be what Marie de Roncier was panting for, not the holy icon. It must be worth a king’s ransom. Otto made slits of his eyes. ‘No objections, le Bret? It’s not like you to surrender easily. Is there more you’re hiding?’

Alan resisted the temptation to exchange glances with the girl. ‘More? I only wish there were,’ he said, hoping he sounded convincing. He lifted his shoulders and, keeping his eyes on his former comrade, sheathed his sword. Limping to where the statue lay embedded in the mud, he gouged it out and handed it to Gwenn. Her fingers were like icicles. ‘My leg’s too painful for a fight, Malait,’ he continued, candidly. ‘I’m not a fool to let you make dog meat of me. I’ll be content with escorting Mistress Gwenn home. Do we have your permission to leave?’

The Norseman glowered past thick brows at his former associate. He flattered himself that he knew Alan le Bret as well as any man, for they had diced away many a long evening together. Le Bret always wore that look when he was certain he was winning. But le Bret had relinquished the stone without so much as a murmur. Otto patted his pouch; he had the jewel the Countess craved. He had won this round. So why did he have a nagging suspicion that he was being played for an ass? ‘Come here, wench,’ he said.

Gwenn planted her feet firmly in the mud and stared a refusal.

‘Come here, I say.’ Otto took a threatening step towards her, but Alan barred his way.

‘Leave the maid alone, Malait.’

‘What ails you, le Bret? Turning into the white crusader?’

‘She’s only a child. Leave her alone.’

Malait rolled a contemptuous eye. ‘Becoming quite the nursemaid in your dotage aren’t you, le Bret? Where’s the pretty boy, Fletcher? Where’s your other charge?’

Alan’s jaw tightened. ‘Shut your filthy mouth.’

A blinding explosion of lightning bleached their faces. There came an almighty crack, an awesome tearing sound, and the ground quaked like Judgement Day. A scatter of pebbles tumbled down the entrance passage and came to rest in a puddle at the bottom. Rainwater trickled steadily in, filling the puddle.

Paddling to the entrance, Alan peered up the stairs. ‘An oak has fallen across the steps,’ he said. Gwenn Herevi waded after him and he felt an icy hand slip into his.

‘What are we going to do?’

He barely caught her low whisper, and threw her a sideways glance. ‘Afraid of the storm, Mistress Blanche?’

Her head was downbent. ‘My name is Gwenn. And no, storms don’t frighten me. But devils do.’

Alan let his fingers curl round hers; such tiny, delicate icicles. ‘Didn’t you say I was a devil?’ he murmured. Her head came up, and a shy smile caught him off-guard, warming his belly.

‘You know what they say, Alan le Bret. Better the devil you know...’ She flung an expressive look in the Viking’s direction.

‘You flatter me,’ Alan said with a snort of appreciative laughter. Keeping a wary eye on Otto, he loosed Gwenn’s hand while he twisted his injured leg safely out of the draught. It was bone-chilling. Gwenn wrapped her arms round her middle and kept close. ‘Decided you like me?’ he couldn’t resist enquiring.

‘Aye...I mean... No. Th...that is...’

Laughing, he reclaimed her hand. ‘You’re only a baby, aren’t you?’

Gwenn considered snatching her hand away, but her fear of Malait prevented her.

The cold and damp were playing havoc with Alan’s leg. Ignoring the Norseman who seemed to be lost in thought at the bottom of the steps, Alan dropped his cloak onto a relatively dry spot. ‘We’ll sit here and wait out the tempest.’ Pulling Gwenn down with him, he eased his leg.

Otto glowered half-heartedly at them, a seed of an idea germinating in his mind. He resented the fact that his lord had misled him by not mentioning the jewel. He fell to speculating how much it was worth. He knew a goldsmith in Vannes with a loose enough tongue if it was oiled with liberal quantities of wine...

‘I’m going,’ he said, though a weak thread of suspicion held him back. ‘Why is it that I feel as though you’ve stolen a march on me, le Bret?’

The grey eyes opened wide.

Malait placed a capacious boot on the bottom step. ‘I never forget a slight, le Bret. I’ll come looking for you if I find you’ve bested me.’ He threw Alan a look that would have frozen the blood of Lancelot himself and tramped up the steps into the teeth of the worsening storm. He grunted as he forced his bear-like bulk past the fallen tree, and then he was gone.

Gwenn sighed, and kept her hand tucked in Alan’s. He found no reason to disengage himself. The concubine’s daughter was only a child. No threat. After some time, the child lifted her head and spoke.

‘Did you learn what you wanted to learn?’

‘Eh?’ Alan had been in another world, a world where he never had to worry where the next coin was coming from. He had been dreaming.

‘The people whose tracks you followed.’

‘Oh.’ She had caught him unawares, she seemed to make a habit of that. Alan thought swiftly; he had indeed learned something, but he did not want to inform this chit of a girl. He had seen riders with their cloaks fastened down, and had known instantly that they were more intent on concealing the colours emblazoned on their surcoats, than of escaping the icy wind. The angels had sided with him – as he had taken cover behind a lichen-encrusted boulder, a helpful gust had lifted one of the riders’ cloaks high over his head. The flapping material caused a squire to lose control of his mount, the animal had reared, and in the ensuing tangle Alan was granted a clear sight of their colours. The unfortunate squire had a chastening whip slashed across his face for his sins.

‘Ermine,’ he had mused, ‘that’s Geoffrey, Duke of Brittany. And the Count of Toulouse – Toulouse, here?’ What had he stumbled upon? The high rank of the participants in this clandestine rendezvous warned of deadly secrets. There was a third lord in the group, whose coat of arms had remained covered. Surprisingly, given their high rank, the other noblemen seemed to be deferring to him. This lord wore heavy rings over richly embroidered gauntlets. His cloak was lined with priceless sables, and fastened securely with golden clasps. His face was muffled. Not a glimpse of a colour peeped out, but in all probability the man was too important to wear colours himself. Then a stray finger of wind lifted the mantle of the squire at the nobleman’s elbow. There was a brief flash of gold and crimson. On seeing the colours, Alan’s innards dissolved, and he jerked himself out of sight behind his rock. What he had seen was the royal lion of England. The other participant in this furtive meeting was none other than His Grace, Henry, the Young King of England – Duke Geoffrey’s older brother.