One day when baby Philippe got the gripe, Johanna came to the reluctant decision that she would have to feed the child in the solar, for he was so distracted by the goings on in the hall that he began to carp and would not feed properly. Settling the baby on her broad hip, she carried him upstairs. His cradle had been placed alongside his sisters’ bed. Johanna would learn nothing this morning thanks to the babe. Nor would she see the handsome captain. Scowling at her charge, Johanna dragged the curtain across the opening, lest a chance visitor to the solar should disturb the already unsettled infant.

‘You’re a nuisance, you are.’ She wagged her finger at him but, being genuinely fond of the baby, she bore him no ill will. Philippe gurgled and stopped grizzling. He smiled and waved a chubby fist at her. Johanna gave him a loving shake. ‘You’re a charmer, and all. All smiles now you’ve got your own way.’

She plumped down on the bed, stretched out her legs and unlaced her gown. Philippe responded well to the peace and quiet and was soon sucking vigorously. The bed was bulging with feathers – it was soft, and baby Philippe warm. After a minute or so, Johanna’s eyelids became heavy. The conversation down in the hall was no more than a distant buzz. Now and then one voice or another would rise above the others, but gently, like waves breaking on a distant shore. Half asleep, Johanna’s mind wandered. She visualised herself walking the length of a beach. Striding at her side was Ned Fletcher. His hair was bleached by a summer sun. He turned and looked at her. His eyes were as blue as the sky, and he was smiling...

Philippe’s head lolled heavily to one side, the milk dribbling from his tiny rosebud mouth. He was sated, and his eyes were closed.

In a minute I’ll lace myself up and put him in his cradle, Johanna thought lazily. She was too comfortable to rouse herself, and surely no one would object if she took a short nap? She folded her arms securely round the sleeping babe, exhaled softly, and joined Philippe St Clair in sleep.

Half an hour later, she jerked suddenly awake, wondering what had disturbed her. Instinctively she looked at the infant, but Philippe’s small body lay tranquil against her breast – he was fast asleep. The draught blowing through the window slit must have woken her.

Easing the baby from her breast, Johanna pulled the edges of her gown together, moving slowly so she did not joggle him. She did not want to get up, but she couldn’t lie on Gwenn Herevi’s bed all day. Baby Philippe might have the colic, but her brother would be avid for news. Conan had bribed the carter who brought in Kermaria’s supplies from Vannes, and usually Johanna left verbal messages with him. More rarely, Conan himself would ride in on the carter’s wagon and arrange to meet her in the stables. If caught, he would say he was peddling. Johanna failed to see why Conan was so interested in life at Kermaria. Her plump red lips pursed. She must ask her brother why he needed to know so much – she didn’t want to help him if it meant harm might come to Captain Fletcher. Thoughtfully, she ran grubby hands over the fine coverlet. It was silk, imported from Nicaea in the Holy Land. Johanna did not know what silk felt like, nor had she heard of Nicaea, but she recognised quality when she came across it. She hoped Mistress Gwenn and Katarin appreciated how fortunate they were to slumber in such a bed.

She heard a soft footfall in the solar. Someone was moving about out there. It must have been the creaking of the solar door that had woken her, not the chilly spring breeze. Tenderly she wiped Philippe’s mouth with her sleeve and put him in his cradle. Philippe didn’t so much as murmur. Babies were so trusting.

The breeze lifted the curtain of the sleeping-alcove and Johanna saw Gwenn Herevi. She sucked in a breath and drew back, full lips thinning. She hadn’t made a sound, nor would she; she would snatch at this heaven-sent chance of observing her rival unseen.

Gwenn was standing by the shelf where that statue of the Virgin was kept. Johanna saw her pick it up. She could hear her muttering under her breath. Gwenn Herevi couldn’t be talking to the statue, surely? The girl must be mad, Johanna thought hopefully. And salting that idea away in the back of her mind, where it would stay until she found a use for it – perhaps in her bid to win Ned Fletcher – Johanna squatted down on her haunches to watch what Sir Jean’s bastard was doing.

***

‘What do you mean, the wench refuses to do it?’ the Dowager Countess snapped. ‘We’ve been generous enough, haven’t we?’

Since her fall, Marie de Roncier’s legs were shaky, and as she continued to spurn crutches, she had had to submit to being carried down to the hall of Huelgastel. She had consented reluctantly to this indignity, but her son had sweetened the draught by ordering her a chair similar in construction to his own. Throne-like, it had armrests at the side, and Marie had discovered that there was nothing she like better than to sit in state in her cushioned chair and queen over her son’s kingdom. The Countess Eleanor, who spent more and more time in the chapel, made no objection. Enthroned in her chair, a rug draped across her useless legs, Marie glared at the pedlar from Vannes.

‘You’ve been more than generous, madame,’ Conan answered, and, seeing danger in his patroness’s flashing black eyes, he fell on his knees. The granite flags were hard and cold through the scant rush covering, but the pedlar had learned early on in life that the nobility liked respect enough to pay for it, and he didn’t mind a bit of boot-licking – or in the Countess’s case, slipper-licking – if it meant the noble lady would keep him in her employ.

‘Why won’t she do it?’ the Countess demanded, testily.

The woman was as tenacious as a terrier with a rat to shake, Conan thought. Then, because this thought set in motion an impolitic smile he had difficulty suppressing, he hastily looked at the floor. Let her think me subservient. Stammering, he tried to explain the unexplainable, ‘I...I think Johanna has a f...fondness for the child.’

‘Fondness?’ The Countess’s eyes were hard with disbelief. ‘Fondness? Don’t fob me off with lies! You can’t tell me that all these months we’ve been paying your sister to keep her ears to the ground, she’s been nursing a fondness for St Clair’s brat!’

‘I’m sorry, madame, but it’s the truth,’ Conan mumbled, bowing his head so low he could have kissed the flags at the Countess’s feet. He wished his belly did not ache. This bending double did not help his delicate constitution. A drop of that wine on the side trestle would put some fire in his insides... Out of the corner of his eye Conan saw the Countess’s red satin slippers tap – there was life left in those feet then – and the next moment he felt the sting of her cane as she flicked his temple.

‘Oh, stop grovelling, do,’ she clucked impatiently. ‘I can’t make out what you’re saying when you mumble at the ground.’

The pedlar tried to meet the Dowager’s gaze, but her coal-black eyes were bolder than any whore in Vannes and, finding himself out-stared, he found himself looking at her bosom instead.

Marie made a choking sound in her throat. ‘It’s not good enough,’ she said.

‘My apologies, madame,’ Conan mumbled, uncertain whether she was referring to the disobedience of his sister, or his looking at her sagging breasts. To be safe, he shifted his eyes to the wimple covering her throat. Was it a scraggy throat under the spotless linen? The throat of an old bird who had lived too long?

‘You’re certain she can’t be persuaded? Have you offered her more?’

‘Aye, madame. I only had to hint at poison, and she went all tragic on me. Saying as how did I think she could harm a child who’d sucked the nourishment from her own p–’