‘Alan, wait! Alan!’ she called.
‘Alan le Bret!’ Conan caught his breath as the full name came to him in a flash. ‘That’s it, Alan le Bret!’ And carefully, for he felt as though he were taking his life in his hands, he craned his neck to view the horseman. Sure enough, the rider was none other than the man whose presence in Ploumanach had robbed him of a night’s sleep.
Conan watched as he reined in his horse, a magnificent chestnut, level with the shrine. Hastily, Conan shrank behind St Guirec. If he positioned himself carefully, he could peer past the saint’s wooden feet and watch them safely.
‘Alan, wait!’ The girl caught hold of the animal’s bridle. She was breathless. ‘You weren’t going without saying farewell, were you?’
Conan’s ears sharpened. Alan le Bret was leaving, was he? Now there was stroke of good fortune.
The chestnut gelding sidled. ‘I told Ned to say goodbye to you on my behalf.’
‘I...I wanted...’
‘Aye?’
Le Bret’s tone was not encouraging, which confused Conan. Had he taken the gem already? And had the girl discovered its loss? She looked upset.
Conan’s instincts were blunted by years of hard living, and lack of exercise. He seldom employed them where other people were concerned. Count de Roncier had done his thinking for him, and his wits had dulled. But Conan’s instincts had not completely atrophied, and dimly he perceived that if he were to work successfully on his own, he must allow for amendments to his plans. The chill was seeping through to his bones; but visions of a shining gemstone inspired him to set his discomfort aside and attempt to work out what the girl was thinking. It should be child’s play, her face was so open. The wench was upset, any fool could see that. Concluding her expression was more wounded than condemnatory, he reasoned that Alan le Bret had not taken her treasure. His spirits lifted.
‘I wanted to thank you for going out of your way for us, Alan,’ the concubine’s daughter said. ‘You have been a true friend.’
‘A friend,’ the mercenary murmured. His pewter-coloured eyes were as cold and aloof as they had been two years ago. No, that one would never change. The pedlar watched with interest the way the girl’s fingers were twisting the courser’s reins round and round her fingers, as though she did not want to release them. Alan le Bret must have seen it too, and apparently it vexed him, for he gave the reins a little shake and said in a dispassionate voice that lifted Conan back to Vannes, ‘You’ve thanked me, mistress, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’
St Clair’s bastard dropped the reins as though they were red-hot, and thrust unsteady hands behind her back. ‘Aye. I wish you well, Alan.’
He did not spur away immediately, though Conan’s newly resurrected instincts told him that he wanted to. He gazed down at the girl and observed with apparent irrelevance, ‘You came without your shoes.’
The girl looked away. ‘Oh, yes. I had to run to catch you up. I didn’t want you to go without me seeing...thanking you...’ Her voice died.
Alan le Bret continued to look down at the concubine’s daughter, while she looked up at him. Conan saw the man’s throat constrict, and noticed the sensuous lips were tightly compressed. With a sense of shock, he thought he understood. Could it be that he had misjudged this man? He had long thought that Alan le Bret was as cold a fish as one could hope to meet, but today, on this beach, Conan had an astonishing revelation. The coldness was a mask. The stillness which gripped the mercenary was not the stillness of a man who felt nothing, it was rather, the stillness of a man who felt too much. The icy sea was forgotten. This man could not be in love with St Clair’s bastard, surely? By her posture, the wench was not immune to him. So why was Alan le Bret leaving?
‘Farewell, my Blanche,’ the mercenary said softly, interrupting Conan’s interesting but profitless speculations. He reached out a hand as though he would touch her. Conan found himself holding his breath, but the horseman checked himself, and took up his reins. ‘Perhaps we will meet again, mistress, at the tournament?’
It had been a question, and the wench didn’t answer in words. As her head was turned, Conan could not see her face, but he could imagine those luminous brown eyes were speaking for her.
With sudden viciousness, Alan le Bret dug in his heels. Sand swirled and when it had settled, there was only the girl standing alone on the beach staring at the gorse bushes which marked the beginning of the Ploumanach road. The dust was slower to settle there, and the shrubs were moving in the draught made by a horse’s swift passage.
The girl’s head flopped forward, and for a long minute she stared at her toes which were lost in the rosy sand. Conan noticed the sea again, nipping relentlessly at his nerve endings. ‘Hurry up, I’m freezing to death,’ he muttered.
A silver tear-track trailed down the girl’s cheek. He saw her raise a hand and wipe her lashes. Her sigh mingled with the swishing of the sea. Her head came up, and great, mournful eyes toured the beach. She looked puzzled, like someone on uncharted terrain with no familiar landmarks to guide them. Finally, when Conan was afraid the girl had grown roots, she swung about and retraced her steps.
‘About time. Jesu, I’m numb right through,’ Conan mumbled sourly when she was safely out of sight. Staggering ashore, he looked askance at his dripping clothing. A stabbing pain shot through his stomach. ‘Christ aid.’ Then he grinned. Why was he worrying about clothes and a griping belly? With what he had coming, he could happily spend the money he’d stolen from the cloth merchant. Resolving to buy clothes fit for a king and the best food to settle his stomach, Conan moved haltingly towards the village. He was shivering, he was in pain, but he was happy.
First he would see where a tailor could be found, and then he would hatch a plan or two. There was no doubt about it, the concubine’s daughter yet guarded her gemstone, and but for the taking of it, it belonged to him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Three days later, Gwenn had recovered from the ordeal of her journey and had begun to chafe at the lack of exercise. Alis Wymark had a sweet but indolent nature, and it took much cajolery on Gwenn’s part before her aunt could be persuaded to accompany her and the children to one of the secluded coves which formed part of the peninsular. Apparently Alis was unused to putting a foot outside the manor proper without her tiring woman and at least one maidservant.
‘But, Aunt,’ Gwenn objected, laughing when she saw her aunt piling cushions and blankets into the arms of her longsuffering tiring woman. ‘There’s no need to make a pack horse of poor Marzina! We’re only going for a walk!’
‘I know, dear,’ Alis answered. ‘But I like to be prepared. We shall need something to sit on, and we might decide to make a day of it. I’ve sent Felicia to the kitchen for a basket of provisions. It will save having to send back for them if we need them.’
Gwenn noted the innocently uttered and very revealing phrase ‘send back for’. It would never occur to Alis to walk back herself for provisions if and when they were needed. As Sir Gregor’s wife she was used to being waited on hand and foot, and accepted it as her natural right that Marzina and Felicia should be dragged all the way to the beach with burdens which may or may not be used.
Alis finished stacking cushions on Marzina and heaved a sigh. She was out of condition, and sighed a lot. If she stopped asking others to do things for her and did them herself...
Smiling, Gwenn shook her head. Her aunt was loving and affectionate, and that was what mattered. Philippe had blossomed under the lavish care bestowed on him by Alis and her women. Katarin, however, remained silent. Gwenn hoped that a peaceful walk to the beach might encourage her sister to come out of herself. Peaceful? With Marzina, and Felicia, and Lord knows who else?