‘It was difficult in Vannes,’ Jean put in stiffly, guiltily aware that he had only supplied priests to see his son was literate, and that he had himself to blame for Raymond’s military deficiencies.

‘Aye, well, I came home none too soon. Fortunately, Raymond has a natural aptitude with horses, but as for his swordplay,’ Waldin clucked in disgust and then shut his mouth abruptly, for Raymond was racing towards them, raising a cloud of dust.

‘Papa! Papa!’ Raymond skidded to a halt amid a hail of pebbles. ‘It’s Mama! The baby! You’d best come at once!’

The brothers exchanged glances. ‘Early isn’t it?’ Waldin asked.

‘Yes, but my wife’s done this before. She knows what to do. Is the midwife called, Raymond?’

‘Aye. Come quickly, Papa!’ Raymond plucked his father’s sleeve.

Shaking his head at his son’s impetuousness, Jean gave him a complacent smile. ‘No need to hurry, my boy. Babies take their time.’

‘But, Papa–’

‘I’m coming.’ Jean draped his arm companionably round his son’s shoulders and steered him down the road. ‘We’ll wait in the hall, then we can be the first to know whether the child’s a boy or a girl.’

‘I hope it’s a girl.’ Raymond muttered at the dusty ground, and the tension in his body reached his father through the arm about his shoulders.

‘Raymond? What’s the matter?’ When Raymond stared blindly at a magpie’s feather lying by the road, Jean gave him a friendly hug. ‘You’re not sulking, are you?’

Raymond raised hard green eyes. ‘I hope the brat’s a girl.’

‘These thoughts are unworthy of you.’ Jean spoke gently. ‘If you are jealous, you have no need to be. If the child is a boy it will not affect my relationship with you. You are my firstborn. No one can take that away from you. This new child, boy or girl, cannot affect that.’

‘You hope for a boy,’ Raymond said, mouth one sulky line.

St Clair saw no advantage in lying to his son. ‘Aye, but boy or girl, I will love the child.’ He gave his son an affectionate squeeze. ‘I do need an heir.’

‘An heir!’ Raymond flung off his father’s arm and thumped his chest. ‘What’s so wrong with me? Why can’t I be your heir?’

Jean drew in a sharp breath. A portion of him could sympathise with Raymond, but he could not excuse him. It was the way of the world that legitimate children should inherit. Raymond knew that. Even legitimacy was no security, for estates could not be broken up, and it was common for the eldest, legitimate son to take all, while younger, legitimate children must fend for themselves. That was why Waldin had chosen to carve his way through the lists. Waldin had not let the fact that he had been a penniless second son sour his nature. It had been the making of him. He had understood that a small estate could not be sliced up like so much bread.

‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Raymond. You know the reason.’

‘Aye! It’s on account of my birth, and the fault’s not mine. The fault is yours, Papa, yours! Why didn’t you marry Mother before I was born?’ He groaned his frustration. ‘Why did you leave it so late?’

A heart-wrenching cry floated out on the hot, motionless air. The three men froze mid-stride.

Waldin laid a blunt hand on his nephew’s back. ‘Have a care for your lady mother, will you?’ Another harrowing cry had the hoary, unvanquished champion of many a battle wincing like a green page. ‘Where the hell is that midwife?’

In the yard, Ned Fletcher and Roger de Herion, Jean’s squire, had been fencing in their shirtsleeves. The two were at rest now, still breathing heavily, eyes trained on the high solar window. Waldin was unable to prevent himself running critical eyes over the pair of them. Fletcher, as usual, had his stance right, but Waldin grimaced when his eyes reached his brother’s squire. ‘De Herion,’ he barked, ‘what did I tell you about keeping your fingers behind the guard?’

Roger started. ‘But, sir, we’ve finished. We’re at ease.’

‘If your sword’s unsheathed, hold it properly. God’s blood, it’s a weapon not a walking stick! You could learn by watching Fletcher. He’s at ease, but he’s ready for anything that might come at him. You should be, too.’

Jean had reached the steps. Tight-lipped, he indicated that his son should precede him into the hall.

But Raymond was still angry. ‘I shall pray for a girl, Father. And you’d best do the same, because if it’s a boy I’ll not let it take precedence over me. Burn me to ashes, but I’ll make its life hell. If this babe is a boy, sir, he’ll never succeed to your–’

‘Enough!’ Jean barked. ‘We’ll talk later, you and I.’ He leaped the steps, two at a time.

Raymond glowered after him, but he was aware of his uncle’s lowered brows.

‘You can thank the saint that guards you,’ Waldin said, ‘that your father is too preoccupied to heed you. I’d think twice before I’d voice such a threat again, if I were you.’

Raymond scowled and barged into the hall.

‘Mama’s crying,’ Katarin said, rushing towards her father almost before he had lifted his boot over the top step. There was a hush in the hall, for everyone was listening to the scurrying feet, thumps and groans in the bedchamber. Katarin knew something mysterious was going on, something secret. She was used to being present in most important events in the household, and after she had summoned Klara she had run back to her mother. But Gwenn had waved her away as though she had no more business in her mother’s chamber than a fly on a butcher’s slab. ‘Is it a secret, Papa?’ she asked. Katarin liked secrets, but only if they were hers to share. Her father stared at the door at the foot of the stairs and did not respond. As he often kept his distance, Katarin was unperturbed. She jammed her thumb into her mouth and kept her eyes hooked onto her father’s face. She longed for a cuddle, but the most she could hope for was not to be sent away. Instinct told her that today, if she was quiet as a mouse, her father might welcome her presence.

Hesitantly, for Katarin’s keen eyes observed that the skin was drawn tightly across her father’s features as it did when he was angry, the little girl touched her father’s hand. She removed her thumb from her mouth. ‘Papa?’ Her father inclined his head, and his lips shaped a smile that even her child’s eyes could see was counterfeit. ‘Papa? Aren’t you going to see if Mama is getting better?’

Jean’s expression softened, and to Katarin’s delight he scooped her up in his arms and hugged her. ‘No, my little blossom, I am not.’

Pleased with this contact, Katarin beamed, and when her father went to the trestle and sat down with her on his knee, her joy was complete. ‘Why not, Papa?’ she asked, wriggling with pleasure.

‘Because, sweet girl, we have to wait.’

‘It is a secret!’ The smile on her father’s face was becoming more like a proper smile with every second that passed.

‘In a way, it is,’ he agreed.

Raymond stumped up to a bench, accompanied by Waldin. Ned and Roger de Herion came in, shrugging on their tunics. They made straight for the ale jugs.

Katarin put her mouth to her father’s ear. ‘Do you know what the secret is?’

Her father rolled his eyes mysteriously. ‘I do.’

‘Tell me, Papa. Tell me the secret.’

Emulating his daughter, Jean put his lips to her tiny, pink ear. ‘Your mother is having a baby.’

Katarin gave another excited wriggle, her unformed child’s features composed themselves, and her question flew straight as an arrow to the nub of the matter. ‘Will it be a boy or a girl, Papa?’

Jean shot his firstborn a look, but Raymond was glooming into a wine cup. ‘That, my flower, is the biggest secret of all. Only God knows the answer to that question. We will know soon.’

‘How soon?’ Katarin was wondering what her father’s moustache felt like, and whether she dared to stroke it. From the solar there came a strangled shriek that was more animal than human. ‘Mama!’