Marie flourished her cane for silence. ‘Spare me the sordid details.’

Her bold eyes fastened on something behind Conan and, turning, he saw Count François de Roncier stalking up the hall. With a sigh, he bent his creaking spine even lower. His stomach gurgled a protest. ‘Good evening, mon seigneur.’

‘You may go,’ Marie said. Conan hesitated, and she glared past her hook of a nose, restively tapping her cane on her chair leg.

‘You...you will employ me again, won’t you, madame?’

Thin, bloodless lips were stretched into what might have been intended as a smile. ‘Naturally I’ll employ you. I can’t rely on your sister, but so far I’ve not been able to fault you.’

‘I...I assure you, madame, I am yours to command,’ Conan said eagerly, and because he knew it was expected of him, he ignored his griping belly and gave another ingratiating bow. ‘My thanks, madame.’ Thankful that his sister’s mutiny had not lost him a good source of income, he bowed himself out.

Marie smiled apologetically at her son. ‘I have to admit, François, that the plan I discussed with you earlier has failed.’

‘The brat’s wet nurse refuses to “spice” his gruel?’

‘That’s it in a nutshell. I’d hoped the wench could be persuaded, and we could have solved your problem with the minimum of bloodshed, and without arousing suspicion. After all, infancy is fraught with dangers – why, your own sister Sybille died when she was barely six months old. It would have been the lesser of two evils.’ Marie sighed. ‘However, apparently the pedlar’s sister has feelings for St Clair’s heir. I regret her attitude, but the girl’s brother says she won’t budge on this.’ Her thin mouth drooped. ‘I don’t want you to lose ground to St Clair any more than you do, François. Perhaps the time has come for firmer measures.’

François smiled. ‘You’ve come round to my way of thinking, Mother?’

‘Aye, my son. I think that I have.’

***

Jean was in the stables. He had dismissed the groom and was brushing his dead wife’s horse, Dancer, himself. The mare’s coat was brown, she had liquid eyes and white stockings on three of her legs. A pretty creature, Jean had bought her for Yolande soon after she and the children had been evicted from Vannes. Yolande had not ridden Dancer since she had first discovered that she was pregnant, but Jean knew that she had loved the animal. After Yolande’s death, Jean had lifted responsibility for the grooming of the horse from the stableboy’s shoulders and taken it upon his own. He had not missed a day since his wife’s death. The grooming of Yolande’s mare had become in some inexplicable way a ritual whereby he imagined he maintained a link with his wife. No one came running to him with day-to-day concerns while he was in the stable, and he indulged in flights of fancy that a year ago he would have dismissed as maudlin and unrealistic.

He would pretend that he was grooming Yolande’s mare prior to their taking a ride together. Any moment now, he would think, Yolande will walk smiling through that open door, and I will link my hands together to form a step for her, and she will mount, and we will be off, trotting sedately out of the yard and...

‘Ned? Ned?’

Recognising his eldest daughter’s voice, Jean came out of his daydream with a jolt. He moved to the door and leaned out. Gwenn was tearing across the yard towards the too young and too handsome captain. Jean sighed wearily and his brows jutted, for Gwenn was barefoot and her skirts were bunched up round her knees. She was running so fast she looked certain to run into the Englishman. Momentarily forgetting his bereavement, Jean slipped into an older, happier, mode of thinking and resolved to remind Yolande to have a word with the girl. Then remembrance shivered cold through his veins. Yolande would not speak to Gwenn, or anyone, not in this life. Yolande was dead. It was up to him to sort his daughter out...

‘Ned?’ Gwenn panted. To add insult to injury, as his daughter slithered to a halt in front of the captain, Jean saw her grasp his arms to steady herself.

‘Mistress?’ Ned responded warily, and disengaged himself as soon as he was able, for he had seen Jean hovering hawk-eyed in the stable doorway.

Gwenn tossed a shining but dishevelled rope of hair over one shoulder. ‘Ned, can we ride?’

‘Gwenn, what are you about?’ Jean interrupted as forcefully as he could. It was a task these days, finding energy to be forceful about anything. A month ago he had finally taken his heir’s case to the Duke’s court to establish his claim to the de Wirce lands. He had made his hold reasonably secure; he had promoted Fletcher to captain; taken on more men-at-arms... He knew he ought to do more, but lately Jean left everything to Waldin. He had lost heart.

‘P...Papa?’

‘If you could see yourself,’ Jean strode over, ‘pelting across the yard with your skirts hitched up. You’re a disgrace, Gwenn, a disgrace.’

‘I’m sorry, Papa, but I’m bursting for a ride, and I thought Ned–’

Jean St Clair made a hook of one brow. ‘Ned?’

‘My apologies, Papa. I forgot...’ Gwenn trailed off. Her father’s face was set harder than the Israelites’ stone tablets. She lifted speaking eyes to her father’s, but was prudent enough to keep her tongue wedged between her teeth, and any rebellious comments locked inside her. Her father looked so tired.

‘Get inside, Gwenn,’ Jean said, coldly.

‘Aye, sir.’ She bobbed him a curtsy.

‘And do something about your hair, will you? It looks like a haystack this morning. What would your Mama have said?’

A hand flew to her hair. ‘I’m sorry, Papa.’ Head up, she walked back to the hall.

‘And as for you, Captain,’ Jean roused himself to speak severely, ‘leave my daughter alone, will you? By Christ, if I catch you speaking familiarly to Mistress Gwenn...’

The threat was left hanging in the air, but Ned understood. He would lose his captaincy and would have to go elsewhere for his daily bread.

‘I’ll try, sir,’ Ned said, ‘but sometimes I find it a trial, because your daughter...’

Jean found a smile. ‘I know, lad,’ he said, with complete understanding. ‘She forgets the difference in your stations. I should have found her a husband long since, but now that Lady Yolande is gone, she is a great comfort, and I don’t want to lose her.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Ned sympathised with that. He did not want to lose Gwenn either, not that she would ever be his, of course, but the idea of her marrying and leaving Kermaria left him sick inside.

‘But,’ Jean’s voice took on a hard edge, ‘it is up to you, Captain Fletcher, to keep her at a proper distance. It is up to you to remind her.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Nodding gruffly at Ned, Jean returned to Dancer and picked up the curry comb. He knew he ought to resume enquiries and choose a husband for Gwenn. He had a couple of candidates in mind, but after a few minutes’ miserable contemplation, he abandoned his line of thought. It didn’t cheer him at all.

Pensively, he stroked Dancer’s immaculate coat. He didn’t want to lose his daughter. The loss of Yolande was enough for one lifetime. Apart from his children, Jean had nothing left worth losing. Another twisted smile surfaced. The one positive thing to come out of Yolande’s death was that he had become immune to fear. Nothing on this earth could intimidate him. Having lost his darling, he was beyond anyone’s reach. And as for title to the land that he had coveted for so long, he had his heir now, and doubtless the Duke’s court would decided in Philippe’s favour. It was up to Philippe to pursue that when he was grown. Jean no longer cared.

***

Alan shortened his reins and, waving Duke Geoffrey’s mounted guard to one side, looked about the port of Vannes with interest. It was high tide, and the sky was overcast. Cloud-grey water lapped near the top of the jetties. A fishing boat was moored in the mouth of the harbour, and a lone cormorant stood on its bow, wings outstretched. It had been diving. Alan smiled as the bird shook its wings in the breeze to dry them. The smells of a thriving quayside, of salt and oysters, of crabs and fishes’ entrails, were inescapable.