Obediently, Gwenn pulled a ribbon from one of her plaits and wound it round a well-muscled arm. ‘About the ride, Uncle, I had other plans.’ Gwenn had no liking for Waldin’s brutish warhorse, Emperor. He was a big devil whose coat shone like polished ebony. He terrorised the other horses in the stable, and broke his fast by taking chunks out of the grooms. Gwenn valued her skin enough to stay clear of him.

‘Surely a brave girl like you is not afraid of a horse?’ Waldin asked, innocently.

‘Afraid?’ About to deny his accusation, Gwenn caught the knowing gleam in her uncle’s eyes. ‘I’m not afraid of horses in general, but aye, I’m afraid of Emperor. That one is more dragon than horse, and I’d not go near him if I was offered all the gold in the duchy.’ Her chin inched up, daring him to mock her, but instead she saw approval in his eyes.

‘It takes courage to admit to fear,’ he said. ‘And I would far rather have a courageous girl as my niece, than some prissy little mademoiselle who lies through her teeth.’ He buckled on his sword. ‘You’re a saucy baggage. I like you, but you’re a saucy baggage.’ And chucking her with rough, ungallant affection under the chin, he marched to the stables and ducked through the door.

Gwenn rubbed her chin and grimaced. Waldin did not know his own strength. Remembering what she had come out to do, she crossed to the iron gateway which led into the churchyard. She was going to the wood to gather flowers for her mother. The bluebells were out, and the great yellow buttercups; and in the hidden, secret places, sweet violets, with purple, velvety petals, and lightly veined wood anemones. There was hawthorn and blackthorn too, but she would not pick those for her mother’s posy, since they were unlucky.

Jean had reclaimed some of the land the trees had engulfed since his father’s time, cutting back the undergrowth on the northernmost margin of the glebeland and turning it into an orchard. The saplings were young and spindly, but the sap was rising and they had burst into blossom. Gwenn loved the forest, but was not permitted beyond St Félix’s Monastery without an escort. Her father had warned her about the dangers both from outlaws hiding out in the woods and from wolves and wild boar that were known in the area.

As she walked through the churchyard towards the apple trees, a woodpecker drummed deep in the forbidden reaches of the forest. Nearer to hand, two squabbling sparrows flew tight circles round each other above the church roof, tumbling over each other as they somersaulted down the reed-thatched roof – furious, chirping balls of flying feathers and pecking beaks.

Dew-drenched grass tugged at her skirts. The cool, woody fragrance of the apple trees soothed her senses. Leaving the orchard behind her, another, more pungent smell wrinkled her nostrils. The wild garlic was out, too. A faint smile flickered across her lips. ‘No garlic for Mama either,’ she thought aloud, ‘I want only sweet smelling, lucky flowers. My mother deserves the best that there is, for today is her day.’

Chapter Fourteen

The wedding took place at noon. Being a brief ceremony performed at the church gate by Prior Hubert who had been winkled out of his sylvan retreat, it was over almost as soon as it had begun. The prior was invited to the celebration afterwards but, a hermit at heart, he was unused to worldly folk and had a strong dislike of crowds and noise. Politely, he declined the honour. Yolande pressed him into taking a gift of food to share with his brothers, and after some gentle persuasion the prior accepted her bounty. And no sooner had his duty as priest been discharged, than the holy man sketched a cross over the heads of the assembly and scuttled back into the safety of the cool, slow-moving shadows in the forest.

It was expected that the feasting would stretch on well into the night. Everyone was welcome; and because it was not only the lord of the manor’s wedding but May Day also, it promised to be an uproarious event. After the austerities of Lent, the household had been looking forward to it. None doubted that it would be remembered for years to come.

The St Clair family processed from churchyard to hall. The first to follow them was Denis the Red, who pushed his way to the front of the retainers. He drew up in the doorway, greedy eyes popping like a horse that had chanced on a field of pink clover. The trestles were clothed in spotless linen. Swags of shiny green ivy decked the cloths, and tucked into the ivy were dainty bouquets of bluebells and sprigs of apple blossom. It was not the foliage however, that caught the soldier’s eye; it was the sheer quantity of food. It quite took his breath away. There was roast beef, steaming gently from the fire; a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth; a showy dressed peacock which Denis knew looked better than it tasted. There were duck and geese by the score. There were jellied eels, loaves by the dozen, large round cheeses, saladings, custards, sweetmeats. A grin of delight spread slowly across the plump, freckled face. Denis’s hand crept to his belt and deftly he undid it a notch or two.

‘When you’ve quite finished drooling,’ Ned said in his ear, ‘you might move along.’

Eyes glazed, Denis the Red stumbled to a bench. It was Paradise, and he hardly knew where to begin. A tower of trenchers was stacked at one end of the table. He took the top one.

Ned, as Red’s sergeant, should by rights have taken the upper crust, but no slight had been intended and Ned let it pass. Settling beside Red, he reached for a wine jar and poured himself a measure. ‘You must find Lent an ordeal,’ he said, glancing at the festoons of flowers, which he knew to be Gwenn and Katarin’s handiwork, for he’d seen the girls at work that morning.

Pained folds creased the plump cheeks. ‘Don’t mention Lent,’ Red groaned. ‘You’ll give me indigestion. Lent’s Hell on earth.’ He stuck his fingers in the waist of his braies, which since he had undone his belt, hung in loose, baggy folds. ‘Look, I’m a shadow of the man I was. That’s what Lent does for me. My breeches are falling off.’

Sir Jean had given the signal for everyone to begin. Ned tasted the wine. Since leaving England, he had learned a thing or two about wine. This one was a good Burgundy, rich and mellow. St Clair was generous with his men. Ned glanced towards the knight, sitting on the special high dais that had been made expressly for today’s festivities. Sir Jean happened to be looking in his direction. Smiling, and careful to keep his eyes from Mistress Gwenn, Ned raised his cup in acknowledgement of the wine and the compliment St Clair paid his men that day. It was an open-handed gesture that not many men in his position would have bothered to make, especially when one considered that there was not likely to be a sober head among them in half an hour’s time, not sober enough at any rate to tell the difference between good wine and vinegar. ‘Aye,’ Ned murmured softly, ‘Lent’s over for another year.’ Casually, he twitched a cluster of the apple blossom from the ivy and tucked it into his sleeve.

Later, when bellies were full – most of them over-full – Ned judged that enough wine had been downed for no one to care where his eyes wandered. Inevitably his gaze was pulled to the top table. Lady St Clair, as Yolande Herevi must now be called, sat between her husband and his brother. Her gown was of cream silk brocade trimmed with gold braid. She was laughing, her face was alight with happiness. Ned had never seen her looking so well. As was the custom, Gwenn, in the bright blue she favoured, was further down the board, sharing her meats with her brother. Her cheeks were flushed with the good burgundy wine, and her head was flung back. She was laughing too, at something Sir Waldin had said. Her veil, held in place by a slim circlet of flowers, was slipping. The champion leaned across the trestle and gave one of her thick, brown plaits an affectionate tweak. Favouring her uncle with a slow smile, Gwenn twitched her hair out of his hand and tucked it demurely beneath her veil. Ned felt his stomach twist and gulped down another mouthful of wine. What he wouldn’t give for the right to sit at her side.