Impulsively, she shoved at Gwenn’s hands. They fell at the first push. Her hazel eyes blinked into flaring torchlight which made monsters of the men upon whom she gazed. Katarin’s heart banged louder than a drum and seemed to add to the uproar.

One of the monsters was tearing towards her. His eyes shone like blue lamps and his helmet was askew. His cheek was streaked with red paint, and there was more of it daubed on his hair. It was a moment before Katarin realised that the monster was Captain Fletcher. She whimpered. And because his expression was more frightening than the darkness beneath Gwenn’s blanketing hands, she looked beyond him and saw what no child should ever see.

She saw her father as the cold steel of his enemy’s sword was buried in his chest. Katarin saw everything – the sudden gush of bubbling blood on her father’s lips, the gloating triumph lighting the eyes of the shining metal man towering over her father, and the impotent rage which distorted her uncle’s face. She even saw her father’s final, serene smile.

How peaceful Papa looks, Katarin thought, in all this horror. Death sits well on him. And with a pang, she wondered if Papa would be able to talk to Mama now he had joined her. Katarin would like to be peaceful too...

Ned hauled on Gwenn’s arm, trying to lift her. Terrified that she and her sister were to be torn asunder, Katarin squeaked and buried her face in the warmth of Gwenn’s breast. She clung like fury. She’d seen enough.

Blackness. Tumult. Screaming.

‘Come, Gwenn. Come with me,’ Ned said urgently. Katarin felt herself lifted. She shuddered. Was there no peace left on the earth? Katarin only wanted to be quiet, and peaceful.

‘Take Katarin.’ That was Gwenn’s voice. Katarin screwed up her eyes in case they should open without her willing it. Didn’t Gwenn want to be with her? Releasing her sister, Katarin slapped her hands over her ears. She’d heard enough. Outside her own, small self, there was nothing. With eyes and ears closed, Katarin began stumbling about in her mind for a quiet place where she could hide from the ravening monsters. And while Ned carried her up the endlessly twisting stairs, she found what she was searching for. It was a refuge, a haven, deep in a secret part of her she had not visited before. It was heaven, for no one could touch her when she was there. She was safe. Her eyes remained closed. The rosebud mouth relaxed. Her private retreat was all brightness and calm. There were no dark shadows which might shroud the Devil. God was not there either, because since last August when her mother had died, Katarin had stopped believing in God. But there was peace in abundance, peace and quiet. And because peace was all Katarin wanted, she resolved never to leave her sanctuary; never, ever again.

Casting a final look round her father’s devastated hall, Gwenn noted, with the cold detachment of one who has taken more than she could stomach, that Raymond had fallen. Her brother lay on his belly in the rushes, still as death. His sword had been knocked from his hand, and his head was twisted to one side, brown hair half concealing a gaping wound across temple and ear. Even at this distance Gwenn could see it glistened with blood. The rest of him was pale as alabaster. The Archangel Gabriel could not help him now.

With a resolution that yesterday she would have condemned as callousness, Gwenn slammed the door at the bottom of the stairs, threw the heavy bolts home, and darted after Ned and Katarin. At the top of the spiral, she rammed the second door shut and barred that too.

‘Thank God your father built these doors,’ Ned said, frantically calculating how long they would hold out against a sustained assault. And more as reassurance for himself, he added. ‘The twists of the spiral favour me.’

Stooping to pick up her sister, Gwenn frowned. ‘I don’t see–’

‘The stairs were constructed to favour the defenders – the turns favour a right-handed swordsman at the top,’ Ned explained briefly, while he sized up the solar with a military eye. This was the first time he had entered the women’s quarters and private family rooms. They were smaller than he had imagined, barely large enough to hold the beds. Ned saw nothing that he could put to use in this crisis, not even another door to barricade the children behind.

Feet thudded overhead. Looking up at the rafters, Ned swallowed a curse. His worst fears had not included de Roncier’s company scaling the tower walls. If the Count’s wolves were prowling the ramparts...

Most of the women were weeping, save two. Of these braver souls, one – he recognised Mary – was crouched before an ugly pink statue of Our Lady, praying. The other, the wet nurse, Johanna, was cradling St Clair’s heir. Seeing that Johanna’s dark eyes were pinned on him, Ned addressed her. ‘Did anyone think to bolt the door to the parapet walk?’

The wet nurse started, blushing like a coy virgin. ‘No. No. I don’t think–’

‘Christ save us!’ Ned tried to distinguish the thumps and scurryings overhead, but with the uproar from below, it was impossible.

‘What is it, Ned?’ Gwenn’s touch on his arm made him start.

He did his best to smile. ‘We’re bottled up. They’ve got to the roof, and they’ll be coming at that door from above and below. When I defend you from the landing–’

‘No, Ned!’ She saw immediately what he was driving at. ‘It would be suicide! You must stay in here.’

Crazily, Ned’s spirits lifted. So she did care, a little. Then he remembered he was the only protection she had. ‘But mistress, I must–’

‘Defend us from here. I want you in here.’

It made little difference, Ned thought wretchedly, whether he fought in or out of the solar. In the end, the outcome would be the same. So much for St Clair’s carefully constructed stairs. He spread his hands.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You’d best prepare yourself.’

Juggling her sister in her arms, Gwenn drew a battered dagger from her sleeve. It was rusty enough to have belonged to one of the Knights of the Round Table. ‘They’ll not get me.’

‘No, mistress,’ Ned said as reassuringly as he could. ‘They’ll not harm a woman.’

The wet nurse gave a distressed murmur and clutched the baby to her breast. ‘They’ll hurt my little lamb though, won’t they, Captain?’

Ned bit his lip and placed a bruised hand on the baby’s fluffy hair. He couldn’t find it in his heart to lie to the woman, whose dark melting eyes were brimming with great love for the infant. There was no doubt that de Roncier had come for the babe, and it was beginning to look as though God had decreed that Philippe St Clair’s lifespan would be short. If only Sir Jean’s much-vaunted improvements had included building another way out of the solar...

‘They’ll not harm Philippe! I’ll not permit it!’ Gwenn declared, eyes glowing with a martial light.

Ned was desperate enough to clutch at straws. He scoured the solar for inspiration. St Clair had entrusted him with his children’s lives, and though there had not been time to confer with him, Ned had the distinct impression that he assumed they could escape. ‘Take Gwenn and run,’ he had said. Run. But they were trapped. How could they run?

He spoke aloud, ‘There must be a way out.’ If Jean St Clair thought they could escape, then escape they could. There was a window seat below a couple of narrow window slits, piled high with hastily tidied bedlinen. No inspiration there. There were a couple of sleeping chambers, a privy, a pile of rubble left by the mason...

‘I think,’ Ned announced cautiously, ‘we might have a chance. Gwenn, grab some warm clothing and those sheets.’

Brown eyes blinked. ‘We’re going?’ Gwenn turned to see what Ned had been looking at and her eyes opened wide. ‘Ned! You don’t think–?’

‘Hurry!’ There was no knowing how long they had. While Gwenn scrambled to her alcove, Ned snatched up a candle and took it to the privy. He tore back the tapestry hanging. The wet nurse was keeping closer than his shadow, he could feel her breath on the back of his neck. Together they peered down a shaft that was darker and smelt viler than any pit in Satan’s lair. The candlelight did not shine to the bottom, but that was probably a mercy.