Gwenn shifted restlessly beside him, her face turned expectantly to his. ‘Who were those people?’

Alan hunted for a plausible lie. ‘It was nothing out of the way,’ he said. ‘The local nobility out hawking.’

She lost interest. Pushing back her hood, she tugged off her veil. ‘The wretched thing’s soaking.’ Against all the odds, her voice was sleepy. A diminutive hand came up to hide a yawn, and her dark head drooped against his shoulder. ‘Wake me when it’s time to go home.’ And, child that she was, a heartbeat later she was asleep.

Alan resigned himself to a long wait. After a spell he was forced to flex his leg, for it burned like fire. No doubt he would have cause to regret offering to escort the girl back. He winced. As far as he was concerned this past month had been one tedious chronicle of disaster. First he had broken his leg; but he’d managed to discount that, thinking of the profit he’d make when he took the jewel. Only today he had discovered that he had broken his leg in vain. He’d gained nothing from the whole business, not even so much as a clipped penny.

Gwenn stirred in her sleep. Her hair was glossy even in this feeble light. Her head hung at an awkward angle. Gently, Alan eased his hand free of hers, and draped his arm round her shoulders, turning her so that her face rested more comfortably against his chest. She gave a contented sigh. Such faith. Alan found himself wondering whether she would grow up to be pretty. He thought so.

Alan turned his mind to the royal brothers who had met in this place: Duke Geoffrey of Brittany and the Young King Henry of England. What were they planning? The Plantaganets were not noted for their unity. He had heard – who in Christendom had not heard? – how the Young King and Duke Geoffrey were constantly in rebellion against their father. In order to safeguard the succession, Henry of England had had his eldest son, who confusingly was also christened Henry, crowned during his lifetime. But the Royal House of England was a house divided, and the Young King was not a loyal son. Aided by his mother, the redoubtable Eleanor of Aquitaine, the Young King had stirred up rebellion after rebellion against his father. What was he up to now? Another quarrel over land? Now if Alan could only ally himself with men like those, that would be a challenge. Those men held the future in the palm of their hands; men like Jean St Clair did not. St Clair was poor; the royal brothers must have money, fresh-minted silver to buy new recruits. Alan wondered how he might approach them.

A strand of silky hair had twined round his fingers, and Alan realised he had been caressing Gwenn’s head. He snatched his hand away, and in so doing woke her.

Dark, trusting eyes met his. ‘Is it time to go, Alan le Bret?’

Alan looked at her. She smiled again. And before he could think about it, Alan had put his hand under her chin and brought her mouth round. He kissed her. Her lips were soft and trembled under his. Alan’s eyes closed, and slowly he deepened the kiss, taking her startled gasp into his mouth. He did not think she had been kissed properly before, for at first she resisted opening to him. A small hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he was absurdly pleased when she did not push him away. All at once she seemed to understand what he was about, and her mouth opened. Her innocence enchanted him – she was quite the sweetest thing he had ever kissed.

Before was utterly disarmed, Alan pulled himself free of her, and pushed himself upright. He had to clear his throat, and force himself not to look at those dark, trusting eyes, which by now would be full of bewilderment. ‘Aye, come on. It’s time to go.’

***

‘Have a drink, Tomaz.’ Otto indicated a brimming pitcher of wine, recently shipped in from Bordeaux. ‘I’ve something to show you.’

The goldsmith’s eyes gleamed as brightly as the lamps in the Ship Inn. ‘Bless you,’ he said and, giving a resounding belch in appreciation of the routier’s generosity, he poured the blood-red liquid into his leather tankard.

The Ship Inn was perched on the edge of the quayside in the fisherman’s quarter of Vannes, and in its rare, quiet moments, it was possible to hear the gentle lapping of the sea against the harbour wall and the creaking hawsers of vessels tied up for the night. Tonight’s quiet moment was far off though, for the night fishermen were busy filling their bellies with the various brews that they swore kept out the cold. It would be an hour before they were gone; an hour before the Ship Inn would fall silent enough for someone with sharp ears to hear either slapping waves or groaning ropes.

The goldsmith drank lustily. ‘Ah, that’s good.’ He scrubbed his mouth with his hairy hand. ‘Out with it, Malait. Have you more ill-gotten gains for sale? You must have taken to robbing the dead, you bring me more than anyone else.’

Accepting this tribute as no less than his due, a brief grin flashed across Otto’s lips. The two men often met, for Tomaz bought whatever Otto offered without asking questions, and they did a roaring trade in stolen goods. ‘Here,’ Otto dropped the stone into the goldsmith’s waiting palm. ‘What is it?’

Unhooking one of the overhead lanterns, Tomaz placed it on the table. As he stared at the diamond-shaped crystal, his dark brows twitched.

‘Is it a diamond?’

‘A diamond?’ The goldsmith’s shoulders began to shake, and he dissolved into barely smothered laughter. ‘Fancy you bringing me one of these, and not knowing...’

Malait clenched his fist.

Holding the crystal between finger and thumb, the goldsmith prudently swallowed his amusement and held the stone to the light. He did not want to offend the hot-headed Norseman, or lose a good source of income. ‘See how cloudy it is? There are countless flaws. And look, here’s a chip.’

‘Aye. But what is its worth?’

‘It’s a sunstone. I could smash it with my heel.’

‘Its worth, Tomaz.’

‘Paol could answer that.’ Tomaz tossed the sunstone into the lap of a fisherman whose ancient back was bent as a bow, and whose skin was as brown and tough as the leather of Otto’s boots. ‘What value would you give this, Paol?’

Paol picked up the sunstone, glanced at it, and his mouth split in a gummy smile. ‘Wouldn’t give you an oyster for it.’

‘What!’ Otto shot to his feet.

‘It’s a sunstone, Malait,’ Tomaz said. ‘Your ancestors would have fought tooth and nail for one, for their ships.’

‘Ships?’ Otto repeated, dazedly. Bitter anger flared in his breast. Alan le Bret had taken him for a half-wit.

‘Aye. Might be useful out of sight of land. Round the coast? Worthless.’

‘Worthless?’ Here he was, thinking he’d never have to work again, and all the while Alan le Bret must have known the damned thing’s true value. Why else would he have relinquished it so tamely? One question remained. Had there been anything else in the statue, or had le Bret made a fool of him on that score too?

Tomaz smirked. ‘Imagine a Viking not knowing a sunstone when he sees one.’ Then, seeing the Norseman’s visage grow black as a smith’s, he curbed his mirth.

‘God rot you, le Bret,’ Otto spat through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll spill your guts.’ He focused on the goldsmith whose mouth was curving despite himself. ‘What are you laughing at, Tomaz?’

‘Nothing. Have another drink, my friend.’

‘Give me that thing, old man.’ Otto held out his hand. He would have to return to de Roncier; the sunstone was some sort of proof that there was no jewel. And by the Bones of Christ, Otto thought, it had better be the gem that the Countess had been hot for, and not the statue. If the Count’s mother coveted the statue, he’d be lucky if he was put to cleaning the castle midden.

Tomaz stared pointedly at the pitcher of Bordeaux. ‘What about the wine?’

‘You drink it, and I hope it chokes you,’ Otto said. He rose and stalked into the dark.