‘Died?’ Alan repeated. ‘Mother? No. You’re lying, William. You seek to punish me for my sins. You hate me because I’m a mercenary and I’ve broken your most sacred laws. Tell me you’re lying.’ Alan had adored his mother. A loving woman, Mathilda le Bret’s only fault was that she loved her menfolk too much. Alan had left England to make his own way in the world, in part because he resented the way his mother had taken it for granted that he would become his father’s apprentice. She had tried to plan his life for him, but Alan wanted to plan his own life. If ever he was apprenticed to his father, it would be his own decision, not his mother’s. His leaving had been a statement of independence, but all the time he been away he had reserved a space for her in his heart. Whenever he had been lonely he had remembered her – he’d been comforted by the thought that her uncritical love was always there for him. That could not be ended, surely? All gone. All gone, and he’d never even known...

William gulped. His older brother had always kept his emotions buried, had always appeared invincible. A devil in William had wondered if his lawless brother was capable of suffering along with the rest of humanity. Apparently he was. But triumph, William discovered, had a bitter flavour. He had intended to blame their mother’s death directly on Alan, but face to face with his brother’s distress, the words stuck in his gullet. His eyes must have done the accusing for him, however; Alan’s alert grey eyes had become chinks.

‘You blame me.’ Alan sounded incredulous. ‘I should have thought that a man of your calling ought to be giving thanks that God called her to Him.’

William fell to studying the oak’s spreading roots. He heard Alan sigh and the chinking of harness, and glanced up. Alan had his back to him and was resting his forehead against the chestnut’s neck, gripping the animal’s mane with tense white fingers. The horse stamped a hoof. William’s conscience and his sympathy were roused. In a rush of guilt, he struck at his chest with a clenched fist. ‘Mea culpa,’ he said, like the penitent he was. And louder, ‘Alan, forgive me for breaking it to you so bluntly. I’ve done you a great wrong.’ He laid a contrite hand on his brother’s shoulder. Alan caught his hand, turned, and the brothers embraced.

***

Fretful crying woke Gwenn soon after dawn. Disoriented, she wondered why Johanna had not run to attend to Philippe. Confident that the wet nurse would see to her brother in a moment, Gwenn lazed comfortably until yesterday’s events rushed into her consciousness. Her stomach lurched.

Papa was dead, and Raymond, and Waldin, and... Shuddering, Gwenn nuzzled closer to the comforting warmth of Ned’s long body. She was in a Benedictine guesthouse. Outside, a mule was braying – on and on, like a creaky saw. She was steeling herself to climb out of bed and look the ruins of her world in the face, when Philippe fell silent.

Ned stirred and opened an eye. ‘Good morning, wife,’ he mumbled, and smoothed her dishevelled hair.

‘Good morning, Ned.’ Recollecting what had happened between them, Gwenn blushed, and gave him a shy smile. She opened her mouth to say more but Philippe began to wail again, more demandingly this time. It was impossible to ignore him. Rubbing her eyes, she levered herself upright and saw they were no longer alone. The door of the guesthouse was open, and horizontal bars of grey light streamed into the chamber. Another traveller’s belongings were strewn over one of the palliasses. In normal times it would be quite unexceptional for a guest in a monastery lodge to awaken and find they were sharing lodgings with strangers. Monks’ guesthouses were popular with travellers. But these were not normal times.

Elbowing Ned in the ribs, Gwenn indicated the figure seated cross-legged by the fire. A dark-haired man, in a short, serviceable green tunic with a broad leather belt, he was not dressed for fighting and did not look like one of de Roncier’s hounds. The newcomer had his back to them, and he had apparently been blowing on the fire to resurrect it, for he had small twigs and kindling in one hand. His other hand was raised to the baby, and long, nail-bitten fingers carefully stroked Philippe’s cheek. Certainly not a de Roncier man. It was his touch, Gwenn realised, that had quieted her brother. Katarin was awake, thumb, as ever, jammed into her pink mouth. She was sitting on her mattress facing the newcomer, with her honey-brown hair spilling over her eyes. Unperturbed by the newcomer, Katarin wore a dreamy look, as though she had not been awake long.

The man’s sword was unbuckled and lay on top of a dark mantle, but Ned was not about to take any risks. Under cover of Gwenn’s cloak, his fingers crept to his sword hilt. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. The newcomer turned, an amused smile lighting familiar grey eyes.

Gwenn gasped.

Ned let go of his sword hilt as though he’d grasped a bunch of nettles.

‘So formal, Ned?’ Alan rose to his feet and bowed in that mocking way of his.

‘Alan! Jesu, what are you doing here?’ Ned leapt up to embrace his cousin.

‘I might ask the same of you,’ Alan answered with an arch look at Gwenn who was painfully conscious that Alan must have watched them sleeping in each other’s arms. ‘You’ve changed, Ned. What are you up to? I would never have put you down as a despoiler of innocents.’

With an incoherent mutter Gwenn got up and went, hot-cheeked, to see to her brother’s needs.

‘Gwenn and I are married, Alan, if that’s what you mean,’ Ned said, stiffly.

‘No need to raise your hackles,’ Alan smiled. ‘The redoubtable prior told me you were wed. Congratulations.’

‘Alan, William is here, did you know? It’s his profession today.’

The dark head nodded. ‘I met him coming in. We’ve settled our differences, and I’ll stay to see him tonsured.’

Ned’s lips curved. ‘I’m glad of that. His grievances were eating away at him. Did he tell you they’ve made an artist of him?’

‘So I understand. It would seem there’s no stopping him. He tells me he’s been invited to Mont St Michel to paint the cloisters once he’s professed and has finished work here. It’s a high honour. I’m glad he’s found his true vocation.’

‘Has he accepted ours?’ Ned asked with a lopsided grin.

Alan laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say he accepts it, Ned. Tolerates it, perhaps.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I know what happened at Kermaria. It must have been hell on earth. Mistress, I’m sorry about your family, truly sorry. You have my deepest sympathies.’

‘Th...thank you.’ Philippe’s mouth was gaping like a hungry fledgling’s. The monks had provided Gwenn with a thin, milky gruel of soaked oats, and she tried to spoon it in, but she was unused to feeding her brother, and most of the gruel dripped down his chin. Johanna had made feeding him look so easy.

‘What do you plan to do?’

Trusting a dribble had gone down her brother’s throat, Gwenn answered. ‘We’re going north.’

‘North? Why north?’

Ned explained. ‘We go to Ploumanach. Gwenn has kinfolk there.’

Alan looked sceptically at the children. ‘And you travel with these infants?’

‘What do you expect us to do with them?’ Gwenn glared indignantly at Alan. ‘Leave them behind? We have to get my brother to safety. The Count will kill him if he can.’

Alan rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Why should de Roncier hurt your brother, mistress?’

‘My father married my mother, and Philippe was born after their marriage.’ Her brown eyes were bright with defiance, as though she expected him to deride her own birth.

He caught her drift at once, and did not mock her. ‘So the babe is St Clair’s legitimate heir? Jesu. Poor sod. Poor, innocent, little sod.’

‘Alan!’ Ned said.

Placidly, Gwenn spooned more mess into her brother. After a pause, during which she shovelled with grim concentration, her head lifted. ‘So you see we must get them away. The Count will not rest until his position is secure.’ Sensing he did not have all of his sister’s attention, Philippe seized his chance, grabbed the spoon, and gruel slopped onto the floor. ‘Hell’s Teeth, Philippe, why did you do that?’