‘No door?’ Otto was fascinated, despite himself. ‘I had heard of anchorites, but I never thought a living man would prison himself freely.’

‘Not all anchorites attain the same levels of self-denial,’ Prior Hubert informed him. ‘Our Brother Biel, who went to God last Christmas, was renowned for his asceticism.’

‘Careful, Father,’ Otto grinned, ‘lest the Tempter sows pride in your heart.’

The prior flushed.

‘It’s a tomb for the living.’ Otto was revolted.

‘A pathway to Heaven, my son.’

‘Don’t pontificate. Is anyone in it now?’

‘Aye. A young man has taken Brother Biel’s place,’ Prior Hubert said, trusting that God would forgive him for misleading the mercenary. He was not lying, there was a young man in there...

Otto stalked to the quatrefoil. ‘Can’t see a damn thing through this. You’ve been penny-pinching with your mason. The mortar’s done very ill, and he’s chiselled this askew.’

Prior Hubert ran a thin finger over the curve of his crook. ‘You’re not meant to see in,’ he explained pleasantly, ‘if you could, it follows the hermit would be able to see out. He might be distracted by the world he has forsworn. He might be tempted–’

‘To break out?’ Shifting to the squint, Otto tried to peer through it, but he could see only shadows. ‘I can hear breathing.’

‘It’s God’s will that the young man lives. I pray he lives longer than Brother Biel.’ Prior Hubert lifted his hand and drew a blessing in the air.

‘Christ on the Cross, you’re insane!’ Otto strained his eyes at the squint. ‘It’s black as sin in there. We laymen treat prisoners better than this!’ He wrenched his head back and strode for the door.

‘Won’t you stay and pray with me, my son?’

Otto paused, his ox-like frame filling the doorway. He turned his face to the sun and his shadow spread like a dark stain over the church floor. ‘Not I.’

‘My son, you have a soul. It needs care.’

‘You’re the man of prayer, Father. Say one for me. I prefer action.’ Otto saluted indifferently, and was gone.

In the cell, Ned unclenched his fingers from his sword hilt. He had been holding it so hard he had driven the blood from his fingers. ‘Not that there would have been room for me to wield it in this oubliette of a place,’ he muttered.

‘Ned, has he gone?’

‘He’s gone.’

Gwenn sighed. ‘We’ll have to wait before they release us. The brothers will want to make sure he’s not coming back.’

‘Aye.’

Time dragged in the dismal cell until it seemed they had been immured for hours. In reality, less than an hour later the shutter on the north wall rattled, and a pale smudge of light appeared. It dimmed almost at once as one of the brethren pressed a fleshy, rotund face to the opening. ‘Here. Dominig mentioned you needed water,’ the monk said, withdrawing to thrust a goatskin flask through the aperture. ‘And here’s linen for your hurts, and for the infant.’

Ned knelt on the stone ledge to take them. ‘My thanks.’ He stared at the soft contours of the countenance framed by the wall. There was something familiar about the monk’s eyes. They were light brown and brimming with dreams, and he was sure he had seen them before. ‘What’s your name, Brother?’

‘I’m known as Brother Marzin, but I’ve yet to take my vows.’

‘Marzin,’ Ned murmured. ‘Doesn’t fit.’

‘Eh?’

‘Nothing. I must be mistaken. When will you release us?’

The monk blinked uncertainly while his eyes accustomed themselves to the inky darkness of their prison. ‘The prior says–’ Brother Marzin broke off and turned aside to speak to someone who must have come up to stand beside him in the chapel yard. After a few moments’ murmured consultation, the monk’s round cheeks came back into view. ‘Prior Hubert is here.’

The prior’s clear-cut features replaced the blurred roundness of Brother Marzin’s. ‘Good day, young man.’

‘Good day, Brother.’

‘Father,’ the prior corrected him, thinning austere lips. ‘I am prior here.’ This bloody young man looked scarcely more personable than the knave who had just left. Prior Hubert did not like soldiers of any class. If monks were the body of Christ, mercenaries must be Satan’s. And because of these men of violence, the routine of St Félix’s was in disarray. Prime had been delayed.

‘My apologies, Father,’ Ned said, politely.

The prior’s taut lips eased. This one appeared to have some concept of courtesy. ‘I am sorry that you have been housed so ill, but Brother Dominig stressed the urgency of your plight, and his idea, though unorthodox, has proved sound. Your pursuers have gone, and as far as I can ascertain, they have no idea of your presence here.’

‘Thank God,’ Ned said, with feeling.

‘Do you think they’ll come back?’ Prior Hubert asked.

‘Christ’s wounds, I hope not.’

The prior rapped on the shutter with his staff. ‘I’ll not stand for blaspheming in God’s house.’

‘Sorry, Father.’

‘Would you mind telling me your circumstances? Brother Dominig’s account was inadequate.’

Gwenn moved into the weak slant of light. ‘We’re from Kermaria, Father Hubert,’ she said. There was no reason to be secretive with the man who had married her parents.

‘Kermaria?’ The lines on the lean face sharpened. ‘Who are you? What happened there?’

‘I am Gwenn Herevi, Sir Jean’s...natural daughter. Father, we were attacked. My father has been butchered by his enemies, and we are fleeing them. I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you took us in. They would have murdered my baby brother.’

Prior Hubert frowned. ‘Brother? I was under the impression that the infant was your son.’

‘No, Father. He’s my brother.’

‘Is this young man your husband?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Bear with me, my child, while I get this clear in my mind. You say your father is Sir Jean St Clair?’

‘Was. My father has been murdered,’ Gwenn said, and bit her lip to stop it trembling.

The prior’s voice gentled. ‘Forgive me for not realising sooner, mistress, but I could not make out your features in the murk. Accept my sympathies for your loss.’

‘Th..thank you, Father.’

‘If this young man is not your husband, who is he?’

‘Ned...Ned is...was... Papa’s captain.’

A pause. ‘It won’t do,’ Prior Hubert murmured. Truly God was testing this poor girl more than he tested most. ‘It won’t do at all.’

‘Father?’

The prior met her gaze. ‘Thinking you husband and wife, I deemed it safer for you to remain in the cell awhile.’

Katarin whimpered.

‘No, Father. My sister is frightened.’

‘Your father’s enemies might return to Kermaria via the monastery,’ the prior pointed out, ‘and you cannot outrun them.’

‘They might,’ Ned agreed. ‘It’s most likely they’ll have hidden their horses nearby, and this is the clearest track.’

‘I want Katarin out of here, Ned. It’s not healthy, and the poor child hasn’t said a word since we left Kermaria.’

Prior Hubert’s crook rapped on the shutter. He was determined to find out what God’s will was for these two, but the veil seemed unusually thick today. St Clair’s Captain was obviously a foreigner. Could he be trusted? ‘Young man? Do you have a...ah...what is the term? A strategy?’

‘Aye, Father. Before Sir Jean died, he instructed me to escort Gwenn and the children to kinsfolk in the north.’

‘And the name of these kinsfolk?’

Helplessly, Ned looked to Gwenn.

‘Wymark, Father,’ Gwenn said. ‘They have a manor at Ploumanach.’

‘Mmm.’ The prior glanced at the length of the shadows to assess the hour. By rights he should have finished reciting the morning office, but the plight of Jean’s St Clair’s offspring was no light matter. Prime would have to wait. He would do a penance for this later. The two faces in the cell were white like twin moons. Could he allow Jean St Clair’s offspring to put their lives in the hands of this young man? Were his intentions good or bad? ‘The name Wymark rings a faint bell,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Mistress Gwenn, how well do you know your father’s captain?’