‘Here I am.’ At fifteen, Gwenn remained petite and darkly pretty.

‘Hurry up, sister. Or there’ll be none left.’

There was plenty, but Gwenn took her place at her brother’s side while Raymond lunged at the sauce jug.

‘This bird suit you, Gwenn?’

‘Aye.’

‘And wine sauce?’

Already he was drowning the bird, and a dark pool of sauce seeped out under the edges of their trencher. ‘It would be too bad if it didn’t,’ Gwenn observed wryly.

Raymond stared at the jug as though it were bewitched and had leapt into his hand on its own. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s alright. I like the sauce.’ Gwenn noticed that Ned Fletcher was watching her from the other trestle. Goaded by some inner demon, she lowered her head and peeped experimentally at him. Recently, she had discovered that Ned Fletcher went bright pink when she did that. A tide of crimson swept up the Englishman’s neck and surged into his cheeks, and he swiftly transferred his attention to a flagon of wine. Gwenn smiled.

Yolande’s clear brow – she had marked this exchange – clouded.

Everyone, with the exception of Raymond, who was already carving his bird, was looking to the master of the house for the signal to begin. The door opened, and Denis the Red, so called because of his fiery crest of hair, tramped in. One of Ned’s peers, Denis had been posted at the bridge on the avenue. A travel-stained stranger dogged his heels. Someone groaned. This would mean a delay in eating.

‘Aye? What is it, man?’ Jean asked irritably, for he was as eager for his meat as were the rest of them.

The stranger, a courier, stepped forwards and proffered a scroll. ‘I’ve a despatch for you, sir.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s from your brother, Sir Waldin.’

Jean raised startled brows. The St Clair brothers wrote only rarely to each other, and the last time Jean had heard from Waldin had been two years earlier, after Jean requested Waldin’s support. Waldin’s reply had been curt and to the point. Waldin had sent his regrets, but it was not quite convenient for him to comply with his brother’s wishes. Waldin had promised that he would join his brother later. Jean had not taken Waldin’s promise seriously.

While his household waited, knives suspended over trenchers, the knight broke the seal on the parchment and ran his eyes slowly over the script. He was a novice where reading was concerned, but this hand was bold and clear, and easy on the eye. Waldin must have done well in the last tournament to be able to afford so neat a scribe. ‘Waldin is coming home,’ he announced with a smile. He turned to the messenger. ‘Is my brother in good health?’

The man started. He had been staring at the heaped trenchers; he had not eaten in hours and the smell of braised fowl was making him giddy. ‘Aye, sir.’ Swallowing down a mouthful of saliva, he mustered a smile. ‘He’s been Champion of Champions this past two years.’

‘Has he, by God? So that’s why he wouldn’t come when I beckoned. I thought you were going to tell me he’d been injured, and was coming home to lick his wounds.’

The rush-strewn floor was shifting under the courier’s feet. ‘No, sir. Sir Waldin is as sound of wind and limb as he has ever been.’

‘Thank the Lord.’ Jean grubbed in his pouch for a coin, and tossed it at the messenger. ‘Sit you down, man. On my soul, you look half famished. Eat,’ he said, addressing his household as well as the messenger.

‘My thanks, sir.’ The envoy stumbled to the soldiers’ board and fell upon the food.

Denis the Red watched in envy. His stomach growled. Tonight, Denis would have to be content with cold fare by the bridge. He stumped sullenly for the door and wondered what they’d be getting tomorrow. He wouldn’t be on look-out at supper-time tomorrow.

‘So we’re to meet the great tourney champion at last,’ Raymond said.

‘Yes, if he doesn’t change his mind.’ Waldin was notoriously unreliable, and tourneys were his life.

Gwenn saw that Ned Fletcher’s gaze was once more trained on the top table and she tried another smile. This one failed to bring the slightest flush the young trooper’s cheeks, and Gwenn thought she knew why. Ned knew all about Sir Waldin, and he had his ears stretched to catch every last word about the champion knight-at-arms. She herself had met her father’s younger brother when she was only seven, and she longed to see him again.

Waldin St Clair was, in his way, a rebel. He had refused the expected career in the Church and had gone off to make his fortune at the tournaments. Gwenn’s memory of him personally was hazy. All she could remember was that he had appeared out of nowhere, but she had vivid recollections of the tournament that he had taken her to with Raymond on the outskirts of Vannes. Of course, Gwenn was older and wiser now, and she realised that, for Waldin, that small local tournament must have been an insignificant affair, but it had given her a taste of the excitement they offered. She had seen the silken pennons flying, and the gaily caparisoned horses. She had heard the thundering of great hoofs and the squealing of the horses. She had smelt the excitement.

Waldin had not taken part that day; instead he had devoted himself to answering Raymond’s questions and plying Gwenn with scoopful after scoopful of honeyed almonds and raisins. For months afterwards Gwenn had relished their sweetness and had carried in her mind the brightness and colour of the tourney. After the tournament, Waldin had vanished out of her life as inexplicably as he had appeared, but that day with her uncle had stood out among other, duller days as one filled with magic and wonder.

It was strange how she could not call Waldin’s face to mind, but she was sure she knew what he would look like. He would be tall and strong and brave. He would ride a white charger like the hero of a troubadour’s song. She conjured up an image of him, and it was clear as day.

‘Why should Sir Waldin change his mind, Papa?’ she asked. Since bringing his family to Kermaria, Sir Jean had given his children permission to name him ‘father’, explicitly acknowledging them as his. He had not, however, kept his promise to marry his mistress.

Jean smiled. ‘The reasons why Waldin could be delayed are legion.’

‘From what I’ve learned of life on the tourney circuit, I should think they’re most likely female,’ Raymond cut in with a man-of-the-world snigger. He looked more than happy to expand on this theme, but Jean silenced him with a look.

‘My brother’s a law unto himself, and always has been,’ Jean said. ‘But judging from his missive, it would seem he’s retiring from the lists.’

‘Thank God for that mercy,’ Yolande said softly.

Gwenn clapped her hands. ‘I can’t wait to see him! Think of it, Raymond. The tales he must have to tell. Why, he will have met the King.’

‘Which King are you talking about?’ Raymond asked dampeningly. ‘France or England?’ He seized a decanter of wine and upended it into his cup.

‘Does it matter? To have met a king, any king! Oh, Raymond, aren’t you excited?’

He was, but at seventeen Raymond felt conscious that he was a man full grown, and he’d die rather than admit it. ‘I should think Waldin will have better things to do than gossip with maids,’ he said.

Yolande intervened. ‘It will be lovely to see your brother again,’ she declared. ‘I’m glad he’s retiring from the circuit. Perhaps we might persuade him to stay.’

‘I pray so. I could always use a good man.’

‘Why is Waldin retiring, Papa?’ Raymond asked. ‘I thought tourney champions made sackfuls of money.’

‘They do. When they win. As you know, they take all the loser’s accoutrements – his horse, his arms, everything. But each time they fight they risk their lives and their goods. And they cannot always win. The life of a champion often ends in penury, if it is not cut short. Waldin’s had a good, long run. Only God is infallible, and Waldin knows his time as a champion is limited.’