Jean strode to the stair door and looked back with his hand on the latch. Gwenn flinched to see his face so wreathed with smiles. ‘I’m going upstairs,’ he spoke with quiet pride. ‘I’m going to see my wife.’

‘No! Blessed Mother, no!’

Her father tossed her an indulgent smile. ‘I know she’ll be tired, Gwenn. I won’t stay long. I won’t exhaust her.’

Thrusting her new brother at Ned, Gwenn launched herself at her father. ‘No. Papa!’ Warm tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. ‘Please don’t. Not yet.’

Jean’s smile faded painfully slowly. Stone-still, he drew in a harsh breath and stared at his daughter in a puzzled, uncomprehending way. ‘Gwenn?’ His voice came loud in the gruesome quiet. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

Gwenn choked down a sob. It was a little like watching someone die from the inside out. ‘Mama has gone to God, Papa.’

Her father’s gaze lifted to the ceiling, halting at the place above which his bed should lie. He aged a hundred years in a moment. White-faced, he stared at the rafters as though his eyes would pierce solid oak and see through to where his wife’s body lay.

‘No. No.’ His voice broke. What evil curse hung over him that now, when his star was in the ascendant, his plans should turn to ashes? He had taken it for granted that Yolande would be at his side. Without her, there was...nothing. ‘How could you let her go?’ His accusation tore at Gwenn’s heartstrings.

‘It...it was a difficult birth. We did our best.’

‘Jesu, Gwenn,’ Jean said quickly, shocked by his hasty words, ‘you don’t have to tell me that. Accept my...my...I’m sorry.’ He waved at the heir who had cost him his beloved wife. ‘But how could it have happened? That puny child.... He’s so small, how could he...?’

‘Papa, your son came early. And with the heat, Mama was not well. He was in the breech position.’

‘A breech,’ Jean muttered, unable to accept what his daughter was telling him. This could not be happening.

Conscious that every eye in the hall was fastened on him, he squared his shoulders. He ought to say something which would demonstrate to the people in his hall that he remained in control of himself. A man who had not mastered his emotions was not, in his mind, fit to master others. He caught sight of Ned Fletcher awkwardly juggling his newborn son from arm to arm. ‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’ he demanded. ‘It’s well past cockcrow. Don’t you have duties in Vannes?’

‘Sir?’ Ned responded, clearly startled. ‘Oh, the coat of mail. Aye, sir. Sorry, sir.’

Jean looked coldly at the bundle in Ned’s arms. ‘And while you’re about it, Fletcher, see if you can find a wet nurse for that.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Jean faced Gwenn. ‘I shall go up now,’ he said, and his tone brooked no argument.

Gwenn bent her head in acceptance. Her father had withdrawn behind a protective shield of authority while his dazed mind absorbed the shock. In time, she prayed, he would heal.

Ned deposited the babe in Gwenn’s arms and went to take his sword from the rack at the other end of the hall. The last thing he saw as he left was Katarin shoving her thumb into her mouth and Gwenn, head bowed to hide her tears, holding the babe in one arm and hugging her sister with the other.

Wondering miserably which of St Clair’s mounts would best suit a wet nurse, Ned blinked, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and went to choose a couple of horses.

***

His commission with the armourer completed, Ned found himself within a stone’s throw of La Rue de la Monnaie. Curiosity drove him on. He wanted to see what had happened to Mistress Gwenn’s old home, and he guided his horse towards St Peter’s Cathedral, which he knew was being rebuilt. He heard the mason’s hammers before he reached the square. Rounding a corner, he drew rein. There was not a trace of the old wooden building, instead the outline of a monumental stone cathedral met his eyes. Its contours were blurred beneath a mesh of scaffolding, and dozens of men were crawling and balancing all along the mesh, like fleas on a dog’s back. Wondering at the scale of the activity, he hailed a passer by. ‘When is the cathedral due to be completed?’

‘Stranger, are you?’ the fellow asked, eyeing him warily.

‘From Kermaria.’ Ned hoped that the man had heard of the place. Kermaria was ten miles off, but ten miles was further than most men journeyed in a lifetime, even the worldly townsfolk.

The man was obviously well travelled and talkative, for his expression softened and he chose to answer Ned’s question. ‘God knows, but I shouldn’t think I’ll live to see it finished. I preferred the old cathedral myself, but a fire started in one of the streets nearby.’ He scratched a hairy ear. ‘It would have been...let me think now, some–’

‘Two years back,’ Ned said thoughtlessly, and could have bitten his tongue out, for suspicion fired immediately in the man’s dark, Breton eyes.

‘Aye. It were two years back. It gobbled the guts of the area and the cathedral was damaged beyond repair. They’re rebuilding in stone. What’s your interest?’

Ned shrugged. ‘None really. I remember the wooden cathedral, from way back. And although I’ve had business in Vannes since then, it has never brought me here. This place has changed.’

‘Oh, aye.’ The man grunted, about to move on.

‘Tell me one thing.’ The Breton stopped but did not look back. Ned knew he was listening. ‘Was Duke’s Tavern burnt out?’

‘Nay. The devil keeps his eyes on that place. The wind changed. The fire didn’t touch the tavern.’

Ned couldn’t resist riding round to the inn. He wondered whether de Roncier’s men frequented the place these days. Now that de Roncier’s business in the area had been concluded, there was no reason why they should be there, but nevertheless Ned felt an uneasy tingle in his spine. He had no plans to go in, intending only to amble past; but when he arrived, he took one look at the dun gelding tethered outside, swore, and swung out of the saddle.

He tossed his reins and those of the mare he’d brought for the wet nurse to the urchin guarding the door. ‘Is that animal’s rider inside?’

The child, a grimy boy of about seven years of age who had lost his front teeth, jerked his thumb at the gloomy interior. ‘Aye. But I should think he’s past riding. He’s roaring drunk, by now.’

Ned sighed and showed the lad a coin. ‘This is yours if you keep an eye on these horses and my gear,’ he said, indicating the rolled-up bundle that was Sir Jean’s valuable hauberk. He hoped the boy was wrong and that the gelding’s owner was not inside. Above all he hoped he would not find himself confronting old friends.

Moving reluctantly inside, Ned found that the boy had not lied. The horse’s rider was in the tavern, and he was drunk, not roaring drunk but drunk enough to give Ned trouble. Raymond Herevi, for the gelding was his, was slumped over one of the trestles close to the door. And Ned’s old comrades-in-arms? Ned glanced swiftly round the room. Thank God, trade was slow, he saw no one he wanted to avoid. A table away from Raymond’s, a man was enveloped in a shabby cloak, dozing and lost to the world. A filthy mongrel slept at his feet, whimpering fitfully. There were a couple of greybeards dicing by the fire, and there was the potboy, Tristan. He had not changed, except that he’d shot up like a beanshoot and was even lankier. Mikael Brasher was not about, and neither were de Roncier’s men. Ned’s conscience was clear, there was no reason he should not meet up with his former comrades – he had not betrayed anyone in signing up with St Clair because his old commission had run its course. Nonetheless, he was relieved not to run into them. He was especially relieved not to run into Captain Malait, whose interest in young men, and himself in particular, Ned had noticed.

Raymond had been supping alone. Green, drink-dimmed eyes gazed morosely at a capacious glass bottle. Only the best wine was bottled in expensive glass. Raymond was not stinting himself. When Ned’s shadow fell over him, he looked up.