The King waved the Duke away. ‘Go on with you. And may God watch over you.’

‘And you, sire.’

Philip of France ducked back into the blue silk pavilion.

‘Shall I see our tents packed away, Your Grace?’ Alan asked.

‘Do that. I’ve had my fill of pomp and ceremony.’

After two years in the Duke’s service, Alan knew what he meant. Every day, he thanked God he didn’t have the Duke’s responsibilities, but he nevertheless felt that if he had power he would spend less time feasting and jousting, and more time taking his duties seriously. Until he had joined the Duke, he had no idea that people in such high office could be so devil-may-care. But he did have a liking for his lord as a man. ‘We’re to travel light, Your Grace?’

‘Aye. Choose a handful of like-minded men to ride with us, le Bret, and the baggage can follow at its own pace. I’m not of a mind to trail along.’

***

It was the first of May, and Gwenn woke before dawn. She was excited. Lent being over, today was her parents’ wedding day.

Not wishing to disturb Katarin, she contained herself until the first grey strips of light crept over the broad windowsill. Then she eased herself out of bed, dressed swiftly, and grabbed her cloak from the peg on the door. She padded downstairs. Early as she was, she was not the first to rise, for in the hall the fire had been kicked into life. The men were stirring and mumbling in their blankets, preparing to rise.

Gently, she let herself out, pausing for a moment on the top step to draw in a lungful of fresh air. The sky was wearing its palest colours that morning, mostly blue, but strung out in the east were long, feathery clouds fringed with the gentlest pink. Wood-smoke drifted lazily out of the cookhouse and curled about the yard. She could smell bread baking. Pleased her parents should be granted such a beautiful day, Gwenn smiled and stretched.

Absorbed as she was in the quiet glory of the morning sky, she was slow to observe her Uncle, Waldin St Clair, and Ned Fletcher were in the yard. Sir Waldin was leaning against the trough by the whetstone, and Ned – disobediently, Gwenn persisted in calling her father’s sergeant Ned in her mind – was beside him. They had been shaving, and Ned was firing questions at Sir Waldin. Of late Ned had become Waldin’s second shadow, ceaselessly picking her uncle’s brains on matters military. It was becoming quite an obsession with him.

‘And you, sir?’ Ned was asking. ‘Which type of helm would you recommend?’

‘What, in a tourney? If it’s safety you’re after, I’d go for the closed pot, Fletcher. It’s more likely to stay in place, but it’s very restricting in terms of vision, and my personal preference is for one of the lighter ones.’

‘And the disadvantages?’

Ned wanted to know it all, but at that moment Gwenn’s uncle became aware of her presence.

‘Good morrow, niece!’

Blushing slightly, for Ned’s bright blue eyes transferred immediately to her, Gwenn flung her cloak about her shoulders and said cheerfully, ‘Good morrow, Sir Waldin. Sergeant Fletcher.’

‘Fine day for the wedding,’ the champion said, in a friendly manner.

‘It is indeed.’ Gwenn was curious about her uncle. He had not shown himself to be the greatest conversationalist, except with Ned, when it seemed he never stopped, but this had only fuelled her determination to find out more about him. At thirty two, Waldin St Clair was ten years younger than his brother, and in his looks he was far from the courtly champion of Gwenn’s romantic imaginings. She was not, she told herself firmly, disappointed, but he was not at all as she remembered him. Her father maintained an air of easy elegance, and Gwenn had assumed that his brother, the famous victor of many a joust, would have his share of that quality. This was not the case. The two brothers were quite unalike.

This morning, her uncle was scantly clad in linen chainse and breeches. He had rolled up his sleeves to reveal brawny arms thickly covered with dark hairs. The veins on his hands stood out like corded rope. His shirt hung open to the waist, and Gwenn averted her eyes from the mat of vigorous hair covering her uncle’s broad chest. Waldin’s neck was thick and sinewy. His eyes, like his brother’s, were brown; but his brows were blacker and thicker and quirked upwards. His nose was squat and, having been broken more than once, sat slightly askew. Most of his front teeth were chipped or cracked. No one, however partial, could call Waldin handsome, but as the champion had never had any pretensions to vanity, this had never concerned him. There did not appear to be any subtlety in either Waldin’s person or his manner.

He winked at his niece and, plunging his head into the trough, re-emerged scattering bright droplets. He squatted down on his haunches before Ned. ‘Get on with it, Fletcher,’ he said.

Ned grasped Waldin’s head and began shaving the crown.

‘What are you doing?’ Gwenn demanded, as handfuls of thick brown hair dropped to the ground.

Waldin squinted up at her. ‘What does it look like?’

‘Keep your head braced, sir,’ Ned advised, ‘or my hand might slip.’

‘What are you doing?’ Gwenn repeated.

Ned’s hands stopped their work and ardent blue eyes met hers. Gwenn felt her cheeks warm. He ought not to look at her like that in front of her uncle, especially after what her father had said.

‘I’m shaving his hair off,’ Ned said, and his burning eyes came to rest on her mouth.

His naked longing was too much for Gwenn. She looked away. ‘I...I can see that. But why?’

‘It’s an old habit of mine,’ Waldin explained, as Ned reapplied himself to his task. ‘I let it grow to see how I liked it, but I prefer it shaved. I found it convenient when on the tourney circuit, and I see no reason for changing my habits because I have retired. In high summer, when you spend most of your waking hours crowned with a metal pot, you work up a fair sweat. It’s easier to wash a bald pate.’

‘It looks odd. It’s all white,’ Gwenn observed, intrigued.

Her uncle’s lips twitched. ‘You’d be surprised how quickly it browns.’

‘Even when crowned with your helmet?’

‘I don’t spend every second in a helm.’

Ned had worked round to the back of Waldin’s skull, and as the hair there fell away, Gwenn gasped. ‘You’ve cut him, Ned!’

Dismayed, Ned snatched back his hands. ‘Cut him? No, I’m sure I have not.’ But, staring at the jagged red mark which was emerging from under the champion’s hair, Ned felt a twinge of doubt. ‘Sir?’

Sir Waldin ran his hand over the back of his head. ‘You’re alright, lad. It’s nought but an old scar you are uncovering. The consequences of my preference for a lighter helm. Pray continue.’

Ned resumed shaving, and when he had done, the full extent of the scar was revealed. Purple in places, the skin was shiny and puckered up.

Waldin stood up, flexed his knees, and ran an appraising hand over Ned Fletcher’s handiwork. ‘Not bad.’

‘It will need doing again,’ Ned said, rinsing the razor in a bucket.

Waldin gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Aye. I reckon on once a month.’ A bushy brow rose. ‘You volunteering, lad?’

‘If you’re content to trust me, I’d be glad to do it for you, sir.’

‘Good lad. I’d rather you than that dozy bunch in the hall.’ Waldin nodded his thanks, and Ned, with one last glance in Gwenn’s direction, saluted and walked off. The tourney champion hadn’t missed the way his niece had recoiled on first seeing his scar. Dismay? Or disgust? ‘I’m told it’s not pretty,’ he said. He had not made up his mind what to think of his niece, but he felt duty bound to try and like her. Waldin had the feeling she had been disappointed in him though she had never said as much.

Gwenn stared a moment longer at the mark on his skull and then said in a very matter-of-fact manner, ‘It is quite repellent. I hope, sir, that it no longer pains you.’