‘Poor Ned,’ Alan teased, ‘shackled to a wife and children at your tender age.’

Suddenly uncomfortable so close to Ned, Gwenn threw Alan a black look. ‘Alan,’ she urged Dancer level with Firebrand’s glossy flanks, ‘I’ll have you know it won’t be me who keeps Ned from attending the King’s Joust.’

Alan bowed his head. ‘Very gracious of you, my lady.’ He rolled audacious eyes at Ned, whose mule was dragging its heels. ‘There you are, what more do you want? You have your wife’s permission to go to King Philip’s tournament.’

The irony in Alan’s voice was wasted on Ned, busy belabouring his mule, but not on Gwenn. It was a rare man who heeded his wife’s wishes when they conflicted with his own. A wife was a chattel. Gwenn was lucky with her Ned, he did not view her in that light. How did Alan le Bret view her? As a chattel of his cousin’s?

‘I’ll look for you in August, Ned,’ Alan said, and then he grinned at Gwenn, and she could not divine what he thought.

Lagging farther behind, Ned’s eyes shone with dreamy longing, but he refused to commit himself. ‘I’ll see.’

‘Ned the noble,’ Alan muttered, for Gwenn’s ears alone.

Gwenn’s eyes narrowed, for Alan had sounded almost savage. ‘I’m blessed to have him,’ she said, and braced herself for sarcasm.

But astonishingly, Alan did not mock her, he simply locked his cool gaze with hers, and said with quiet emphasis, ‘I know. He protects you from more than de Roncier.’

Unable at first to puzzle that one out, Gwenn was startled when Alan’s eyes dropped to her mouth. She found herself looking at his, admiring the firm, clean curve of his upper lip, and the generous, sinful curve of the bottom one. When she had finished she realised that he was watching her and she understood what he had meant. Feeling like a guilty child who had been caught stealing a sweetmeat without asking, she jerked her gaze away from him, and made a show of seeing to the baby dozing in the cradle of her arm. Then she pinned her eyes on the sandy road which was dyed sunset pink.

She did not look at Alan again. This was a complication she could do without. For a second, she had caught herself thinking that she would like to kiss him. She had wanted to see if he tasted the same as he did two years ago. She must drive out such sinful thoughts. She had a husband for whom she felt a great affection, and she did not want to be drawn to Alan. Alan was not capable of loving in the way that Ned was – lust was what Alan le Bret was about. She had needed Alan to see the children safely to Ploumanach. For everyone’s sake, the sooner he returned to his Duke now the job was done, the better.

They were entering a village. In one of the doorways sat an elderly matron, a spindle and distaff idle at her elbow while she warmed a wind-burned face in the gentle rays of the waning sun. With a lingering look at Gwenn, which she ignored, Alan enquired the way of the woman.

The matron cupped a hand to her ear. ‘You want Sir Gregor?’ The aged voice was worn, and rusty as a rook’s.

‘Aye. Which way?’

A trembling talon pointed down the sand-strewn road which divided two rows of long, low cottages. Like a sponge, the street had soaked up the pink twilight – the whitewashed cottages were glowing as rosily as the sky. ‘Down there,’ the old woman rasped. ‘And when you reach the bay, skirt along the left hand path past Saint Guirec’s shrine. You can’t miss it. Sir Gregor’s holding is built on the rocks on the peninsular.’

‘My thanks.’ Alan clapped his spurs to his horse’s sides.

Gwenn kept pace, but she avoided his eyes.

‘We’re nearly there,’ he said, giving her a pensive look. ‘I’ll wager you’re glad to have made it before nightfall. You won’t want another night in the open.’

‘No.’ Now they had actually arrived, Gwenn was nervous. Her throat was dry, and swallowing did not ease it. Up until this moment, her mind had been focused on getting her brother to Ploumanach alive. It had taxed her to keep going. She had not had the strength to think any farther ahead than where they would be sleeping that night, and whether they were being followed by de Roncier’s men and might be slaughtered in their sleep. She had not allowed herself the luxury of considering what sort of a reception she and her family might receive from her kin – her very distant kin.

What was Sir Gregor like? Was he married? Would he welcome an entire family turning up like beggars on his doorstep, with little more than the rags on their backs? Craning her neck to watch Ned and Katarin, Gwenn glanced briefly at her husband’s saddlebags. Ned had managed to save the greater portion of Waldin’s money, and they had the gemstone, of course. She could use that to sweeten Sir Gregor if he looked disinclined to offer them aid.

She and Alan rode past the last of the cottages in silence. Their mounts’ hoofs raised swirling pink clouds in the dusting of sand on the path, and the irregular clopping matched the pulse of Gwenn’s heart. She could hear the sea now, another, more rhythmical beat, as waves broke gently on an unseen beach. They must come to it at any moment.

A brace of seagulls shot past them, dazzling flashes of pure, white light, and a small bay opened out before them. It was entirely bathed in the warm, flaring beauty of the dying sun. It was a sight that was balm to the most wounded of souls, and for a few blissful moments Gwenn forgot her troubles and could only gaze in delight. The setting sun rested on the edge of the world. The colours of a ripe peach, it had tinted the western sky. The sea was gold, and the sand and rocks were washed with the most subtle, sunset pink.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Gwenn murmured. Hearing Alan sigh, she glanced across at him. He was not looking at the bay, his eyes were fixed on a modest stone structure which could only be the shrine the fisherman’s widow had mentioned.

Alan’s chest ached. ‘I’ll miss you, my little sparring partner,’ he said, so softly that his voice was almost lost in the gentle hushing of the sea. Ned had yet to breast the gorse bushes which fringed the beach.

‘Miss me?’ That she had not expected, though she knew she would miss him.

‘If...’ Alan did not shift his eyes from the shrine, and Gwenn noted his skin had darkened as though he were hiding some emotion, possibly embarrassment. ‘If anything ever happens to Ned, my Blanche, I want you to promise to call on me.’

Astounded by Alan’s discomfiture, and by his unexpected offer of assistance, Gwenn stared at him for some seconds before she realised that her mouth hung open. Could it be that Alan actually cared? No, this was Alan le Bret, the Duke’s cold captain... She snapped her mouth shut. ‘Call on you? But I have relatives here.’

‘They may not be,’ Alan paused and turned to face her, giving her an inscrutable look which brought her out in goosebumps, ‘to your liking, and as Ned’s cousin I am a relative of sorts.’ The look faded and was replaced with a stiff smile.

He was embarrassed.

‘Will you promise, Gwenn? I’ll be leaving in the morning.’

‘But why should anything happen to Ned? Have you stumbled across something you’re not telling us?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ Alan said hastily, and shrugged, as though his offer was of no account. ‘I merely wanted you to know you could turn to me, if you need me.’

‘Thank you, Alan. I will remember.’

‘I am,’ Alan’s mouth went up at the edges and as Ned rounded the corner, he gave Gwenn one of the mocking little bows which had become endearingly familiar, ‘eternally your obedient servant, mistress.’

‘My thanks, kind sir,’ Gwenn replied in the same light tone. ‘Where would I find you?’

‘Ask for Duke Geoffrey.’ He gave her one last, sinful smile and heeled Firebrand, urging him across glowing pink sands to St Guirec’s shrine. The ache in his chest was not gone, but it had diminished.