‘What will you do?’

Mikael shrugged philosophically. ‘There’s nothing I can do, Irene, except put up with them, fill their bladders with wine and pray they’ll be on their way soon. Don’t you fret. Run along and listen to the monk. All I want you to worry about is fetching those eggs from Stefan after the sermon.’

Irene’s cheeks went the colour of a wild rose. ‘I’m not likely to forget.’

Mikael grinned. His daughter had a liking for young Stefan.

‘But, Father–’

‘The eggs, my girl. Just remember those eggs.’

‘Aye, Father.’

Fondly, the innkeeper watched his daughter walk back to the crowd filing through the Cathedral porch. Like locusts, routiers never stayed long in one place. He grimaced, and wished he’d chosen a more appropriate simile. Locusts only moved on when they’d stripped a place bare.

Mikael didn’t hold with fanciful notions. There was nothing for these men in Vannes. He should find it in his heart to pity them. Mercenaries were only men, flesh and blood like anyone else. Lost souls. A name sprang unbidden to the forefront of his brain. ‘Alan le Bret,’ he muttered. One of de Roncier’s captains had answered to that name. The man must be of Breton origin. ‘Alan le Bret,’ he repeated, shaking his head in disgust. The man was doubly damned in Mikael’s eyes; a Breton hiring himself to a Frenchman – obviously he didn’t have a grain of decency left in him.

He was halfway through the inn door when out of the tail of his eye, Mikael saw a flash of blue. He stiffened, recognising the concubine’s daughter in her silken plumage. The girl danced up to the porch. Only last week she had attempted to befriend his Irene. Mikael did not want his daughter to mix with St Clair’s by-blow, even though it was rumoured her father doted on her. Hesitating, he chewed the inside of his cheek. The maid looked harmless, and he was busy. The girl’s veil had slipped and Mikael caught a glimpse of lively, sparkling eyes and an open, honest face. If truth be told, she looked more like a wealthy merchant’s daughter than a concubine’s bastard; pretty, spoilt, over-fond of silks and satins, full of mischief, but perfectly respectable. The irony of it never ceased to amaze him.

Dubiously, he eyed the girl smiling at Irene. He took a step towards them. Then he stopped. Nay. As an innkeeper he had learned the value of tolerance and though the child’s birth caused her to be shunned by most reputable folk, Mikael would take his oath there was no wickedness in her. She went to St Peter’s with her stiff-necked grandmother often enough. Let her make friends where she could.

A roar from inside the tavern drew Mikael’s gaze. He sighed. He had some real riffraff to worry about this morning. At least the concubine’s daughter had Breton blood in her veins, not like most of the dregs that had drifted into his tavern. With luck it would not be long before his inn was clear of them. Mikael prayed that his stocks of wine and cider would last. He did not want to be the one to have to tell this lawless pack of thieves their fun was over.

A down-at-heel pedlar slid past Mikael, silent as a wraith, while a crusty voice bawled from within. ‘Hey! Landlord! More wine!’

Regretfully, Mikael exchanged the cool air of the street for the stuffy atmosphere of his tavern, and left his musings for a less fraught day.

***

In the upper chamber of the tavern, Count François de Roncier was conferring in his native tongue with his two mercenary captains. His bulky frame was sprawled untidily over the only chair. A table stood before him. Le Bret and Malait, the captains in question, were perched opposite the Frenchman on three-legged stools designed to stand firm however uneven the floor.

Captain Malait bore the clear stamp of his Nordic ancestors; a handsome, bearded giant in his third decade, he had straggling corn-coloured hair tied back with a length of sheepskin ribbon. Almost beautiful, he was far from effete, with bulging biceps that his short-sleeved tunic was unable to cover. Otto Malait was larger even than his lord, and valued because the power built into his sinews looked ready to burst out at any moment; and as the Norseman was short-tempered, it often did. This had a most salutary effect even on the more hardened routiers in his troop.

By contrast, Captain Alan le Bret – who must have inherited his dark colouring from his Breton forbears – was neat and compact, for all that he was judged exceptionally tall for one of the Breton race. Le Bret’s slender strength would never have the driving force of the Viking’s, but a glance at his cool grey eyes told one that here was a man who had learned the value of total self-control. Half a dozen years younger than Captain Malait, and of a more thoughtful cast of mind, le Bret was not one to mindlessly squander resources – his own, or anyone else’s. Taciturn by nature, he kept his thoughts to himself, yet gave the impression that here was a man with a steel will, with hidden talents held in reserve. For these albeit very different reasons, Alan le Bret’s value to the Count equalled that of the burly Norseman’s. Each was a foil for the other.

The trestle table was cluttered with wineskins and goblets, and the air was thick with wine fumes. Standing at the end of the table confronting the seated men, was a young English trooper, Ned Fletcher.

Fair of face and colouring, and taller than le Bret, the trooper had his feet planted slightly apart in an attitude of defiance. He was very young, and his cheeks were stripped of their usual bright colour. About eighteen, his skin did not bear scars or marks of dissipation as did that of the others in the room. He had the fresh-faced innocence of a peasant farm lad, but his youthfulness was not the only thing that set him apart from his officers. The clarity of his blue eyes hinted that his soul had miraculously escaped contamination by his profession. Ned Fletcher was cousin to Captain le Bret, but he was defying his master, and he knew this would not weigh in his favour.

Alan le Bret glanced at his liege lord. As usual, François de Roncier’s ruined hazel eyes were boring into a wineskin, but then the Count leaned forward and his florid features twisted into an expression of intense, almost petulant, irritation. Alan knew de Roncier to be a dangerous man, and the petulance increased rather than diminished the sense of danger. Alan was looking at a man to whom a whim was reason enough to kill, and the pallor on his cousin’s cheeks confirmed that Ned knew this, and that he was afraid.

‘Repeat that, Fletcher,’ the Count asked with deceptive mildness. ‘I think I must have misheard you.’

‘I...I like not...’ Ned cleared his throat ‘...the sound of this commission, mon seigneur.’

When Ned had left England two years ago with Alan, his gift for languages had guaranteed him work far from his homeland. Like most men, Ned could neither read nor write, but he spoke two languages well: his native English, and the French that nobles were wont to use whether in England or on the Continent. He was still coming to grips with the Breton tongue, which Alan, naturally, had learned from his father.

Alan saw the Count’s freckled fingers reach for the wineskin and toy with its stopper. An ugly silence fell. De Roncier let it drag on deliberately, doubtless to unnerve Ned. He succeeded. Ned’s pallor grew more marked. Alan held his peace. It was not for him to interfere unless he had to. Ned had put his head in this particular noose himself. He would have to get himself out of it on his own.

At length, the Count broke the hush by tapping his fingers sharply on the edge of the table. ‘You interrupt our discussion to tell us you mislike this commission, Fletcher?’ The Frenchman shifted, his chair squealed a protest and the bloodshot eyes flickered at Alan. ‘One of yours, le Bret?’

Alan tossed back his blue-black fringe. ‘Aye, mon seigneur. I’ll have him disciplined. Fletcher, get back below. I’ll see to you later.’