The road to St Clair’s holding was empty, with not even a drover in sight. The weather was warm for April, and the air still. From the village, Ned could hear the clanging of the blacksmith at his forge. Geese honked on the marsh. Mechanically, Ned ran his eyes over Kermaria’s defences. The manor had been transformed in the two years since he had ridden in with his cousin on that litter. Kermaria’s ditch was free of lilies and weeds. The well-shaft had been cleared and repaired, and a trough stood hard by. The cookhouse had been reroofed. The road had been widened. The perimeter wall had been strengthened, but the houses which clung like barnacles to the wall had remained, on condition that they were buttressed. The cottage roofs had been reinforced and doubled as a walkway for St Clair’s sentries.

Most notable of all were the alterations to the manor itself. Mortar been reapplied to the crumbling stonework. The entrance steps had been reconstructed. The village carpenter, Jafrez, had made stout new doors for every archway in the building, even fixing them at the top and bottom of the spiral stairs leading from the common hall to the more private family solar on the first floor. Many had muttered at the rank waste, but Ned looked at the solid iron-studded doors with a soldier’s eye, and he could see that if ever Kermaria were attacked, behind those doors would be a final refuge, a place from which one could make a last, desperate stand.

St Clair’s crowning achievement had been to slap an entire floor on top of the solar, transforming his squat, vulnerable manor into a properly defended tower. This upper floor had a shelter for the guards; and, absurdly, Mistress Yolande had been permitted to turf the old grey pigeons off the raised roofline and replace them with snowy doves. They nestled happily in roosts set in the stonework.

Jean St Clair took his responsibilities seriously. The man might be a knight with people to protect, but what lord in his right mind would lay siege to this place? St Clair’s domain, though improved, remained little more than marshland and mud. What could anyone want with that?

Ned sighed. Nothing ever happened here. Thankfully, it appeared de Roncier had forgotten St Clair existed. The last Ned had heard of his former lord was rumour of him betrothing his daughter to some doddering lord in the Aquitaine. Thank God that Waldin St Clair was due to arrive soon. That should prove interesting. Perhaps, if Ned could prove his worth, the champion might give him the odd piece of advice.

A door slammed, someone was leaving the tower. Ned craned his head to see through the machicolations, and a girl walked into his line of vision. His gaze sharpened. ‘Gwenn,’ he murmured to himself, savouring the sound of her name on his lips. ‘Gwenn.’ Knowing himself unobserved, save for the cooing white doves, he blew her a furtive kiss.

Ned was hopelessly in love. But his love was a sad and secret thing, never to be brought out in the open. He had hidden it from Gwenn; and till today he had hoped he had hidden it from everyone. Love tied him to Kermaria when otherwise boredom would have driven him to follow his cousin. Ned knew his love was doomed. Mistress Gwenn might only be the natural daughter of a knight, but she was as far out of his reach as the moon. She might as well be the daughter of an earl. A lad from peasant stock must keep his eyes from straying to a knight’s daughter.

Normally, Ned denied himself the pleasure of watching her. He did not want to shame her with his love, he did not want her disparaged by it. But now, alone on guard duty at the top of the tower, he could indulge himself. He knew Gwenn liked him. But that, if anything, made his situation more impossible. Ever since she’d set her heart on improving her riding, St Clair had permitted her to ask for him. And until today they had invariably ridden out alone.

Ned had to admit that teaching Gwenn had been as much a torture as it had been a pleasure. He lived for their rides, yet when he was alone with her, things were worse. His fair skin flushed easily, and whenever she was near, his face burned. He was painfully, agonisingly, conscious of her every move. And all the time he must strive to appear unaffected. He had considered leaving, for there were times when the touch of her hand on his as he helped her to her horse was almost more than he could bear. Even when he was not looking at her he could see her bright, teasing eyes; her shining fall of hair; her slender hands on the reins.

When they were alone, Gwenn was never the aloof daughter of the master of the house. She was warm and friendly. And to compound matters, she would tease him. ‘What are you thinking about, Ned Fletcher?’ she would ask, laughing. In vain he would strive to keep the hot blood from rushing to his cheeks. Had she divined that he loved her? She may like him, but what did that signify? Mistress Gwenn had been blessed with an open, friendly nature. She liked everyone. Ned knew he should leave, nay, must leave. This half-life he lived was a barren, futile one. But now Waldin St Clair was arriving, and he had another reason to stay. If he could persuade the champion to teach him swordsmanship, if he could really master that skill, he would be able to find a place for himself anywhere he chose.

Gwenn disappeared round a corner and Ned stepped back from the crenellations onto the parapet walkway. Conscientiously, he reminded himself of his duty. Perhaps another turn about the watchtower would serve to push her to the back of his mind. He had inspected the masonry on the roof last week, but he could do it again. Like that of the lower walls, the pointing was in good repair. Moss and leaves were regularly cleared from the gullies on the ramparts; nests were ruthlessly expelled from the guttering. The only birds permitted on the tower were Yolande’s fluttering doves, which she insisted would make a welcome addition to the household’s diet, though Ned could not recall dove ever being served.

The door of the guardhouse creaked open, and Denis the Red stuck his fiery head out. ‘St Clair wants a word with you.’ Denis jerked his thumb at the stairs. ‘Down in the hall.’

‘Oh? Any idea what it’s about?’

Denis’s freckled face did not show much interest. He hitched up the belt girdling his protruding belly and scrubbed his red crest of hair. ‘Beats me. Joel said St Clair told Captain Warr to pull himself together.’

‘Warr can be sloppy,’ Ned said. ‘He left the targets out last week, and they got rained on.’

‘Aye. Well, you know how the man can’t stomach the slightest criticism. He and St Clair exchanged pointed words, and the upshot is he’s leaving. Says he’s got a woman waiting for him in Vannes, but no one believes that one. I don’t think St Clair thinks much of him for leaving at such short notice. Perhaps he heard you mumbling about going and all. You did mention it at table last week.’

An image of Gwenn, laughing, filled Ned’s consciousness. ‘Aye,’ he said, rather quietly. ‘I remember.’

‘Best go and tell him.’

‘You’re to take my place on guard?’

‘Aye, worst luck.’

‘Don’t forget your helm,’ Ned reminded him. St Clair was a stickler for that.

‘I won’t.’ Denis shook his head grumpily. ‘It’s in the guard-house. I thought I’d escape sentry duty today, having done my stint yesterday, but I happened to be in the hall at the wrong time.’

‘Foraging for food, were you?’ Ned asked astutely and, grinning, he ran lightly down the four twists of stairs.

Sir Jean sat at the top of the board, feet stretched out before the fire. A roll of parchment curled on the table, next to an inkhorn and quill.

Though Ned could not read, he recognised the parchment as being the one he had put his mark on when swearing loyalty to St Clair. St Clair was flanked on the one hand by the lanky Captain Warr, and on the other by his firstborn, Raymond Herevi. Mistress Yolande and two of her women were also in the hall, spinning. Katarin, the baby of the family, who was now a sturdy five year old, had stolen one of the spindles and was playing with it. Behind him, the main door slammed. Without turning round he sensed that Gwenn had come back. She pushed past him, her skirts swishing and her arms full of newly carded fleece, and the smoky atmosphere of the hall was for an instant sweetened with the fragrance of rosemary. Ned stared stolidly at the scroll and struggled to keep the damnable colour from his face.