Conan smirked, not only was his luck in that morning, but for once it was paying him to be honest. His handing back of that purse, though it had gone very much against the grain, had been a masterstroke, and he would yet see a profit from it. He had done a good day’s work without even trying.

Tristan put the broached bottle back on a tray with two goblets.

‘Ale for me, if you please,’ Ned said. ‘Wine’s too rich at this time of the day.’ He wanted a clear head when he met the wet nurse.

‘I’ve a strong stomach,’ Raymond declared.

‘Mmm.’ Ned was not going to dispute the obvious.

Grasping firm hold of the bottle, Raymond took refuge in mockery. ‘Ale,’ he sneered. ‘You’re only a beginner, aren’t you, Sergeant Fletcher?’

Suppressing a resigned sigh, Ned reached for his watery ale. He hoped the wench arrived before the level in that bottle sank much lower.

***

Outside his hunting lodge, Duke Geoffrey was examining the rough wolf pelt his huntsman had brought him. ‘A princely beast, eh, Gilbert?’ he said, running his hands over the soft fur.

‘Aye, Your Grace. Quite remarkable. I’ve not skinned a larger one, and he led us a merry dance.’

The Duke’s eyes lit up. ‘He did that. It was fine sport. Three days he eluded us, and–’ The Duke broke off, head cocked to one side. A horseman was approaching. ‘Who’s that?’ he demanded, ready to dive into his lodge. ‘I’m not expecting anyone, and I don’t want to be run to earth for a few days yet.’

The huntsman screwed up his eyes. ‘The horse is yours, Your Grace. Captain le Bret is returning.’

‘Already? It must have been a very brief reunion.’ The Duke emerged from the shadows, and directed a jibe at his captain. ‘Don’t tell me, le Bret, you lost your way and couldn’t find the monastery.’ Alan was the best scout Duke Geoffrey had and they both knew it.

Dismounting, Alan wound his reins round a nearby shrub. ‘My brother wasn’t there, Your Grace.’

‘I’ve heard it’s a harsh regime.’ The Duke hesitated. ‘He’s not...’

‘Dead?’ Alan smiled. ‘No, William’s not dead. Though I daresay he would be if he’d had to stay there much longer. I can see why Pierre Abelard took against the place all those years ago. No, my brother’s very much alive. Apparently the monks have unearthed a rare talent in him. William’s become an artist. He’s become renowned for his wall-paintings, and it seems his talent must be spread around. Another house has borrowed him – he’s repainting their chapel.’

‘So you missed him?’

Alan pulled a rueful face. ‘Aye. And by only a week. But it’s of no moment. I’d not seen him in years.’

‘Pity though. Do you know where he went?’

‘They sent him to an obscure cell tucked away in the forest west of Vannes. It’s dedicated to St Félix.’

‘You could visit your brother later, in a month or two. I can’t spare you just yet,’ Duke Geoffrey said. Losing interest in his captain’s affairs, he looked proudly at the animal skin spread out on the ground.

Taking the hint, Alan followed his Duke’s gaze. ‘You’ve had the head removed,’ he remarked.

‘Aye. I’m having that on the beam, remember? But I don’t need another pelt. Do you want it, le Bret?’

‘I’d be honoured, Your Grace.’

The Duke waved a generous hand. ‘I’ll have it tanned and stretched for you then, to compensate for your missing your brother.’

Alan bowed.

Chapter Seventeen

Mid-April 1186.

Johanna the wet nurse was a stranger to modesty, like most nursing mothers. She saw no reason to blush when she unlaced her gown, and she often fed baby Philippe in the bustle of the hall. Johanna liked feeding him there, for two reasons.

The first was that her brother, Conan, expected her to keep him informed of events at Kermaria, and as the hall was the centre of activity, it was the ideal place for her to sit and sift the wheat from the chaff. All Johanna had to do was find a seat, latch St Clair’s heir onto her breast, and keep her eyes peeled and her ears open. She could talk if she wanted to, but generally she found this not worth the candle, for the people most likely to bother with the wet nurse were the other women. And they, Johanna thought scornfully, never knew anything. So most days, she would sit quietly in the hall, stroking Philippe’s head, and pretending to look down at him in a loving way. She hoped she looked as pretty as Our Lady did on the mural in the chapel. Jean paid Johanna well for the pains she took with his son, and she did take pains. Eventually she did not even have to pretend to look lovingly at Philippe – she came to love him in truth, and her look betrayed her.

Philippe St Clair was almost eight months old. He had taken to his nurse, and had lost his wizened, premature face. The child Johanna fed now could almost be weaned were it not the fashion to keep children on the breast for as long as possible. His cheeks had filled out and were as rosy as apples. He was plump and always smiling. He had strong, sturdy fists which he waved in the air. Johanna did not like to think that soon he would no longer need her, and not just because she was being paid twice. Sir Jean paid her. Her brother paid her. She’d never known work could be so easy, so enjoyable. She dreaded its ending.

The second reason Johanna liked sitting in the hall was connected with her desire to look pretty. Johanna had no sooner spied Ned Fletcher in Duke’s Tavern, than she wanted him – him and no other. She was no simpering virgin to be taken in by a handsome face, as the fact that she was able to give suck to the knight’s child proved. But that day when her brother had wrenched a comb through her hair and shoved her all unwilling into Duke’s Tavern had changed her life. Conan had warned her to talk pretty, because they’d not take a slattern. Having seen Ned Fletcher, Johanna had obeyed him, and she had been taken to Kermaria.

Up until that fateful August morning, Johanna had lived from hand to mouth, drifting aimlessly, content to grab as much as she could for herself. However, once she had set eyes on Ned Fletcher that changed. Suddenly, she had a mission in life, and she was willing to try anything to get him, including sitting in St Clair’s hall for hours longer than was necessary in the hope of seeing him. Ned Fletcher had been a sergeant when he had brought her here, but the very next day Johanna had witnessed his promotion to captain, apparently on the recommendation of Jean St Clair’s brother, Sir Waldin. A squat red-headed man called Denis had been made sergeant in his place.

Ned was unlike any man Johanna had ever met. He did not seem to realise how those golden looks of his turned ladies’ heads, or if he did, he failed to make the most of it, a fact she found extraordinary. Life was tough. Nothing came easily, and Johanna’s view was that you must make the most of the meanest of God’s blessings. God had gifted her with some charms. She was plump and generally men admired her full figure. Johanna would reckon herself simple-minded and not deserving of God’s favour, if she did not put her charms to use.

She tried baring her generous breasts in front of Ned, even if baby Philippe had already sucked himself into a stupor. But though the other men gawped at her, the Saxon never did. And she spent time considering how best to sit in order that her full bosom would be better displayed before him. His subordinates ogled her, their gazes fastened as greedily as a hungry babe’s on her breasts every time she sat by the fire, but Ned Fletcher might as well have been walking about blindfold for all the notice he took. Why didn’t he look her way?

It took Johanna a day or two to work out that his interest was fixed elsewhere, but this did not daunt her. Gwenn Herevi – for the girl was illegitimate and as such had no right to her father’s name – surely posed no threat? She had a skinny, childish body. What man could possibly see Johanna and still want Gwenn Herevi? Confident that her moment would come, Johanna bided her time. But the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and Ned Fletcher had yet to do more than nod at her.