Ned had collected kindling for a fire which glowed softly in the centre of the room. The door of their lodgings was ajar, in a futile attempt to clear the room of some of the smoke, and Ned leaned thoughtfully on the door frame. He was wearing Sir Jean’s fine woollen cloak which Gwenn had brought with her and given him, together with a bleached linen chainse and fresh tunic that his cousin had dug out of storage.

Gwenn held a reed taper to the tallow candle which Brother Dominig had jammed into a candlestand. The iron stand stood tall as a man, it was eaten with rust and had a crick in its stem so it leaned at a drunken angle. There were no other furnishings. When Gwenn lit the candle, the smelly fat spat and splashed onto one of the mattresses. A moth fluttered through the doorway, and was drawn inevitably to the fire. ‘Ned?’

Ned started. ‘Mistress?’

‘Please shut the door. It’s not getting rid of the smoke, we’ll be plagued with insects, and the draught is making this candle burn unevenly.’ The door closed softly. ‘Ned?’

‘Yes?’ Unbuckling his sword, Ned was wondering which mattress to sleep on. Carefully he placed his sword by the fire, with its guard undone so he could draw it at a moment’s notice. Whichever mattress he slept on, he’d want his sword close to hand. He picked the one nearest the door, lest the alarm bell rang in the night. He could not presume to lie with his wife after all she had suffered this day. It felt peculiar to regard her as his wife.

‘You cannot call me Mistress Gwenn all our married life.’

‘I know.’ Ned smiled at her across the flames, thinking how pretty she was in the fireglow. The shadows masked the strain on her face, and the kindly light lent a faint flush to her pale cheeks. His wife. ‘But habits cannot be changed overnight. Your father was insistent I kept my distance.’ He broke off, cringing at his appalling tactlessness. ‘Gwenn, forgive me, I did not mean to remind you...’

Her lips curved sadly. ‘I don’t need you to remind me, Ned. My father’s last moments are ever in my mind. You do not wound me.’ She sank down onto one of the mattresses. Ned stood by awkwardly, uncertain of his new role.

‘At least the mattresses are dry,’ she said.

Ned poked one with his foot. It rustled. ‘Straw?’

‘Either that or dried bracken. Lumpier than our old ones.’ Abruptly, Gwenn ducked her head and began fumbling with her braids, but Ned had seen the sudden sheen in her eyes, and knew it indicated tears. Before he’d given it conscious thought, he found himself on his haunches at her side, hands on her shoulders.

‘Gwenn, don’t check your tears. Cry. It might ease the pain.’

Her eyes met his, dark and watery, but she shook her head. ‘I...I mustn’t. What if the children wake? If they saw me weeping, it would upset them even more.’ She curled her fingers into fists, and her voice wobbled. ‘I feel as though I’m in a dream. None of this seems real. I need to think, only there are so many worries eating away at me I don’t know which to tackle first. Help me, Ned. Help me to think. I’m worried to death.’

Gwenn’s appeal having neatly defined his role, Ned knew where he was. In a companionable manner, he settled himself at her side, put an arm about her shoulders, and hugged her to him. The most difficult part for him would be trying to put out of his mind how much he desired her. That insidious chanting began in his mind. She is your wife. Your wife.

‘I’ve funds, you know,’ Ned was determined to ignore the insistent chorus, ‘so if that’s a concern, dismiss it. Your uncle gave me this. It’s yours. Give me your hand.’ He dropped Waldin St Clair’s purse into her palm.

‘Waldin gave you this? Sweet Mother, it’s heavy.’ Gwenn untied the strings and gaped at an astonishing hoard which included small pennies from the Breton mints of Rennes and Nantes, some of the more valuable English silver pennies, deniers from Tours, and even gold bezants from the distant Byzantine capital of Constantinople. ‘Waldin carried all this on his person?’

‘Aye. It’s the prize money of a champion. When Sir Waldin described the tournaments to me, he told me he reckoned it safer on his person than hidden elsewhere. He liked to know where it was. He threw it at me in the heat of the battle.’

‘Guard it for me. It could see us to Jerusalem if need be.’ Gwenn glanced at the bundle which contained her grandmother’s statue. She might not have to sell the gemstone at once. ‘Ned?’

‘Mmm?’ Gazing resolutely at the fire, Ned’s response was muffled. She is your wife. She is...

‘You could have run off with it,’ Gwenn said in a low voice. ‘You could have left us, and run off with a fortune.’

‘And leave you to face de Roncier alone? How could you say such a thing?’

The hurt in Ned’s eyes tugged at Gwenn’s heartstrings, and apologetically she lifted her fingers to touch his cheek. Her fingers lingered.

Ned held himself steady as a rock. He had to force himself to keep his eyes open, while concealing his feelings from her. He was certain she’d be frightened by them; the force of them frightened even him. He swallowed. Her fingers shifted, went to his hair. She was feeling the texture of it, stroking it, eyes shy, not driven by great emotion, he was well aware of that, but quietly, trustfully exploring. An ache started deep in Ned’s belly. His breath was coming unevenly. He strove to moderate it.

‘I count myself lucky to have so loyal a husband, Ned,’ Gwenn said, unmindful of the disordering effect she was having on Ned’s senses. Not for one moment did I doubt you. You’re a man in a thousand.’

‘Gwenn,’ Ned blurted, and could have cursed, for her hand fell away, ‘I wish I had a ring for you.’

‘I need no ring to remind me to keep faith with you. I’ve sworn to keep myself for you, and I’ll honour my vows.’

Ned’s arm tightened, and he looked at Gwenn’s mouth.

On her mattress three feet away, Katarin mumbled in her sleep. Gwenn’s expression changed. ‘Katarin’s one of my main worries,’ she said. ‘She’s not uttered a word since we left Kermaria.’

‘What?’

‘Katarin won’t talk. I can’t get a word out of her.’

‘She said something then.’

‘In her sleep.’ Gwenn got up and went to her sister’s palliasse. She tenderly stroked a strand of hair from the little girl’s face. ‘When she’s awake, I can’t squeeze a word out of her.’

‘She,’ Ned hesitated, ‘she wasn’t struck in the fight?’

‘No, she was with me all the time. No one laid a finger on her.’ Katarin muttered and threw off her covering. Gwenn replaced it. ‘I can’t understand it.’

Leaning on his elbow, Ned asked, ‘What’s she saying?’

‘I can’t make it out. She’s gabbling. Do you think she’s all right?’

‘If she can talk in her sleep, there can’t be much wrong. She will be in shock, I should think. Give her a day or two to come round. Soon she’ll be chattering away like a starling, and you’ll be wishing her silent for a space.’

‘I hope so. Oh, Ned. It is good to have you to talk to. I’d be in a terrible state, if I didn’t have you.’

‘The infant, is he alright?’

Gwenn nodded, and came back to Ned. She kicked off her short kid boots. ‘Philippe has the constitution of an ox. He doesn’t seem to have noticed anything’s amiss. He yells when he’s angry or when he’s hungry, but he’s soon soothed. He’s an amazing child. If we can but get him away from here...’

‘We will.’

Gwenn stood looking down at her husband. Dear Ned. He had been her only real friend for two years, and suddenly she found herself married to him. It was not easy to believe, but then nothing that had happened that day had been easy to believe. Her mind was too strained to think about the other, unacceptable events, it was best if she kept it fixed on her husband.

Ned smiled, took one of her hands and tugged. Gwenn’s knees bent. Their eyes met and Gwenn saw the flush on his cheeks. She lacked sexual experience, but she knew that the colour on his cheeks was not entirely due to the fire. Ned desired her.