Last winter, it had been the fashion among noble women to leave the side seams of their over-gown, or bliaud, open, lacing them at intervals so that the coloured undergown was revealed. Conan had seen Countess Eleanor de Roncier wear such a bliaud. His sister had clearly aped this fashion, but she had failed to take into account the fullness of her figure. Johanna’s bliaud was in fact a replica of one of Gwenn Herevi’s, and Johanna, no needlewoman, had cobbled it together in the hope of attracting Ned Fletcher’s attention. But far from giving her the elegance that she was striving for, the effect was lumpy and messy. Conan grinned. Johanna bulged out of the sides of her gown like a sausage which was too fat for its casing. Controlling his expression, he replenished her cup. He had lost count of how much she had drunk, but the bottle was down to three fingers, and he had barely sipped from his own cup.

Johanna lifted a hand to her head and rubbed it wearily. The wine had numbed the pain in her feet, but it was having a depressing effect on her senses. She wished Conan would hurry and order food. Wine had a strange effect on an empty stomach, and the one Conan had chosen seemed stronger than usual. Johanna felt listless and tired, and her eyes were having difficulty in focusing.

‘It’s a shame you never did as I asked about the poppy juice,’ Conan opened, cautiously. Brown eyes blinked at him through plump fingers. ‘The babe was obviously cursed, and you lost a chance to make a coin or two.’ His sister removed her hand from her eyes and it flopped clumsily onto the table. Conan took this as a sign that the wine was doing its work.

‘What do you mean, the babe was obviously cursed?’ The whites of Johanna’s eyes had gone pink, as though she had been weeping.

‘He died, didn’t he?’

It was a struggle for Johanna to recollect the story she and Holy Mary had concocted between them. ‘Oh, aye. The babe died of the marsh fever.’

‘And as the infant’s death was so obviously fated, I was thinking it a pity that you had not profited by it. If you have given him the drug, you could have claimed de Roncier’s reward.’ He heaved a remorseful sigh. ‘As it is, the child is dead and you have nothing.’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘In a minute, Johanna.’

Johanna raised her cup and summoned a shaky smile. ‘I can wait. This wine takes the edge off my appetite.’ And my grief, she thought. She wondered how much distance there was between her and Ned Fletcher and her babe. She hoped Malait had called off his dogs.

Conan smiled, and held out a fresh bottle. ‘Have some more, sister.’

‘I might have been rich, Conan,’ Johanna said confidingly, watching the red stream pour into her cup.

‘Rich,’ he agreed.

‘Captain Malait did call his men off, didn’t he?’

‘Aye.’

Reassured that her captain was safely away, Johanna continued with her confession. It was wonderful to discover that she had a sympathetic brother. ‘I might have had anything I wanted.’ She paused to sip her wine. She had drunk too much to notice that this second bottle was a rougher, less dear, wine. Conan was not about to spend more than he had to.

‘Not quite anything, sister, but certainly the Count’s reward would have bought you a trinket or two.’

‘No, Conan. You don’t know... I could have had more than any poxy trinket, if I’d set my mind to it. I saw where she hid it.’ Conan’s muscles clenched, but Johanna was too absorbed in her thoughts to notice. ‘No one else knew. All I had to do was to reach out my hand and take it.’

Conan’s breath was suspended. He did not have the faintest notion what his sister was babbling about, but it sounded as though they were coming to it. An encouraging noise was all the speech he dared make. ‘Mmm?’

‘I missed my chance, Conan. Because of Ned Fletcher. If it had not been for the English captain, I would have taken it months ago.’

‘Taken what, Johanna?’ Conan asked as casually as he could.

Unsteadily, Johanna set her cup down and stared at the table which was rocking slightly from side to side. ‘Conan, I’ve been a fool.’ She focused on him, and he was astonished to see disillusionment in her eyes. ‘You’d kill me if you knew the chance I’d passed up.’

Conan reached for his sister’s hand, and patted it awkwardly. ‘Kill you? Never.’

‘Oh, Conan,’ to his horror her eyes began to fill, ‘you are kind. Such a good brother.’ She sobbed.

‘There, there. Never mind, Johanna. Have another drink, and tell your brother all about it.’

***

Dusk was over in a matter of moments, for a dark blanket of clouds was draped low in the sky, hiding the moon and evening star. The blanket of grey seemed to absorb the last of the daylight rays, and all at once the western sky was no lighter than the eastern sky. Night settled over the forest.

Nose to the ground, a she-wolf was beating the bounds of her territory. She was sleek and content, having gorged herself on a fox cub which had foolishly strayed too far from its den. Her teats were full of milk, for she had cubs of her own. She would not leave them for long.

The wolf was unfettered by the lack of light. Here, where the trees grew at their thickest and wildest and a million leaves blocked out both sun and moon alike, even summer nights were of the darkest kind. The wolf’s lamp-like eyes had a feral glow to them which, though muted, was more than enough to light her path. She stalked boldly through the woody acres, for this was her domain and there was little in it that she feared.

Her nostrils flared as she went, and she caught the interlopers’ scent before she heard them. Holding her body as rigid as a century-old oak, she sniffed again. Here was a scent that lifted the fur on the back of her neck. Here was a scent that brought a low, rumbling growl to the base of her throat. Here was something the wolf did fear. Here was man.

The she-wolf had sense to keep her growl locked in her throat. Poised on her pads, ears pricked, she sniffed, judging the magnitude of the threat. She heard a cry, one of hunger, and when her teats ached in instant response, instinct told her that the men must have a baby with them. The wolf cocked her head to one side, wondering why the hateful yellow heat which men always placed besides them was not there now. There were other scents the wolf recognised; horse, and mule. The cry came again, her full teats burned, and lowering herself to her belly, she edged round the men’s encampment to keep her own scent from reaching the horses. She crept closer. The smell of fear hung in the air.

Cloaks were spread out over the carpet of leaves and debris on the forest floor, like islands in a pool crowded with water weeds. A man and a woman were seated on one of the islands; they had a child and a baby with them. The baby was quiet now, sucking milk from a cup held by the woman. On the other cloak, not two feet away from this group, another man sat alone.

‘Katarin?’ The woman whispered to the child. Her words meant nothing to the wolf. ‘Would you like more bread?’

The child shook her head. It was this child, the wolf realised, who smelt most strongly of fear. The isolated man, whose gaze was abstracted, was staring fixedly at his knee-high boots.

‘Katarin? Please try to answer.’ The woman’s voice had a thread of desperation running through it, and the man with the boots looked across at her. ‘Would you like more bread, Katarin? Some milk?’

The child shook her head.

‘It’s no use badgering her,’ the man seated next to the woman spoke. His hair gleamed white through the darkness. ‘She’ll answer you when she’s ready.’

‘Don’t worry, mistress.’ The man with the boots stirred. ‘It’s a temporary affliction. The child was hurt at Kermaria.’

‘But, Alan, she bears no wound. I’ve examined every inch of her.’

‘It’s not her body that was wounded. I’ve seen similar illnesses before – in soldiers returning from battle. They escaped apparently unscathed, yet they too were struck dumb for a time. I have observed how it tends to afflict those with a more...delicate cast of mind. It passes.’