Johanna looked innocent.

‘You’re lying.’

‘No,’ Johanna said, too shrilly. ‘No.’

‘Here, Warr,’ Otto addressed a man whom Johanna had not seen before. ‘Take this wench and get someone to disarm the one with the poker.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Otto did a tour of the chamber. Johanna held her breath. When he reached the privy he ripped the screen aside. The curtain rings jingled and danced on their pole. Johanna saw a muscle clench in the furred, blood-spattered cheek, and closed her eyes. She wished she had more courage, not for herself, but so she could help Ned Fletcher. Mary’s lips were moving in silent prayer. Was it the praying that had imbued Mary with this startling new courage? Perhaps Johanna had misjudged the power of prayer. If it worked for Mary... For the first time in her life, she started to pray.

‘Keep these two in custody until I get back, Warr,’ Otto ordered tersely. ‘I don’t want them slinking into the shrubbery.’

‘Aye, Captain.’ The man was bruising Johanna’s arm. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ve a mind to play tag with the concubine’s daughter.’

Johanna held the muscles of her face in as neutral a pose as she could. ‘The babe is dead,’ she said, in a voice as clear as a bell. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

The Norseman’s smile was repellent. ‘I’ll learn the truth of that when I catch them, won’t I? You can’t keep a baby stowed away for long – a live one, that is. And when I get back, you and I, my girl, will have a little chat. I shall look forward to it.’ Roughly he pinched Johanna’s chin and strode to the stairwell.

‘Captain?’

‘What is it, Warr?’

‘What about the other women?’

Otto hoisted heavy shoulders. ‘Let them go,’ he said. ‘Spineless jelly-fish, every one. They’re no use to us.’

‘They might know something.’

In the thick beard, Otto’s lips curled. ‘If we set to work on that lot, we’d get nothing but screeches.’ Bella let out a howl. Otto raised an eloquent brow and exchanged looks with Warr. ‘See what I mean?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘The jelly-fish may go, but I want these ladies,’ Malait jabbed a thumb at Johanna and Mary, ‘kept safe for me. If you lose them, I’ll have your liver roasted for my dinner.’

Warr gave a thin smile. ‘They’ll be safe, sir. There’s a vault under the hall. I’ll lock them in there.’

‘Judas!’ Mary screeched. And to her own surprise as much as Johanna’s, she spat in his face.

Chapter Nineteen

Firebrand was full of the joys of spring and too many oats, Alan reflected, as he concentrated on keeping the courser on a short rein. They were passing the huddle of stalls and booths which had been set up by enterprising traders inside Vannes’ West Gate. Alan did not want the Duke’s highly strung horse to cause an accident. A proud, showy creature, Firebrand drew all eyes. Alan felt like a knight.

A whore with lips painted red as ripe cherries gave him a hopeful look. She was up early. He returned the harlot’s smile, shook his head, and rode past her. Ribbons which matched the girl’s lips were threaded through a mass of curly dark hair. She was youthful and pretty, if one did not look too closely at her eyes – they were hard as flint.

Firebrand resented the restraining hand on the reins and, sensing Alan was momentarily distracted, bucked experimentally. The whore hopped briskly out of the way. ‘Poxy knight!’ she shrieked, with the rancour of someone who saw a fat profit slipping through her fingers. Her breasts heaved. ‘Trampling over poor, simple folk.’

‘Easy, boy,’ Alan steadied Firebrand. If the whore had looked at Alan and not the courser, she would have seen that his spurs were plain steel, and not gilded like a knight’s.

He was relieved to see the gate ahead of them, with La Rue Richmont running away from Vannes. He planned to conclude his business at Kermaria before going on to find his brother. Firebrand pranced under the teeth of the portcullis and no sooner had his hoofs hit the highway than he was fighting to be given his head. Alan kept the reins close to his chest until the road was clear. Then he slackened his grip, and with a whinny of delight Firebrand lengthened his stride.

***

Taking a handful of men with him, Otto prowled round St Clair’s tower till he found the cesspits. One of them stank, and needed clearing. The other was empty.

‘This is the one, Captain,’ a mercenary said, holding up some muddied linen. A zealous lad, he had a cast in one eye, but his other was bright. ‘Those prints were made recently.’

‘I have two perfectly good eyes of my own,’ Otto murmured, cruelly, for he had a private and quite illogical aversion to physical deformities. His trooper’s sharp eye clouded.

Two sets of footprints, clear as noonday, travelled in a straight line across the dew-drenched grass to a gate in the boundary wall. As Otto had anticipated, they were widely spaced, indicating that his quarry had been running. The gate led to the woods, and its lock had been smashed, either by the Count when breaking in, or by Fletcher when leaving.

‘Get horses,’ he demanded of another soldier.

‘Horses, sir? From where?’

Their mounts had been tethered half a mile away, the better to approach St Clair’s guards unheard. ‘From St Clair’s stables, dolt, and move your legs.’

The mercenary bit his lip. ‘One of St Clair’s grooms was sleeping in the stable, Captain. He loosed the horses before anyone marked his presence.’

Behind the corn-coloured beard, the red blood surged. ‘By St Olaf–’

‘The groom’s been dealt with, Captain.’

‘Captain?’ The trooper with the cast in his eye edged forward.

Otto drummed his fingers on the ivory haft of his axe. ‘Yes?’

‘It will be no bad thing to trail them on foot, sir.’

‘How do you work that one out?’

‘I know this forest, it’s pretty dense in places.’

‘Local man are you?’ Malait asked.

‘Aye.’

‘Odin be praised. You can be of use.’

The mercenary’s eye picked up some of the brightness which it had lost earlier. ‘Aye, Captain. And I think I know where they might take refuge.’

‘Why are you standing about jawing, then? Lead on.’ Otto gave a brusque signal, and his troop moved towards the gate.

In the forecourt of Kermaria manor, the dust was settling. And though it was broad day, a thick, midnight quiet had fallen over the tower. The cockerel, who had taken refuge on a cross-beam in the empty stable, flapped down from his perch, pecked indignantly at the body of a stableboy, and hopped into the courtyard. It was not the time for sleeping. The groom might have lost his senses, but the cockerel knew day from night. And to prove it, he lifted his head, and crowed as loudly as he ever had. The sound floated out over the tranquil marsh where the climbing sun was melting the frost from the reeds. Frogs croaked. Wildfowl padded placidly across lily pads.

***

Brother Dominig was whistling happily as he made his way down the narrow boar-run in the Bois des Soupirs, the Forest of Sighs.

As Brother Dominig was a novice and had yet to take his vows, the title Brother was an honorary one. The young man was confident that none of his brothers could hear him. It had been said to him on more than one occasion that a novice on the point of taking his vows should take life seriously, and although Brother Dominig did not disagree, at times he caught himself thinking that God might love some of his more serious-minded brethren a little more if they learned to laugh. He strode energetically to the river which ran past the edge of the monastery. A large shovel was slung over one shoulder, and a hazel basket swung from the other. Nearby a mule was braying.

That morning, the novice’s rota had come full circle, and Brother Dominig had been given his favourite chore. Today he must empty the eel traps and clear the fishponds of weeds and silt. It was a chore which his superiors in their wisdom had decided required only one pair of hands, and as Brother Dominig loved the river and was of a solitary disposition, this was the job he looked forward to most. He enjoyed outdoor work, and was determined to make hay while the sun shone, for the prior had ordained that his profession, and that of his fellow novice, Marzin, was to be on the Feast of Pentecost tomorrow.