A painful thudding filled Conan’s head.
They must have the statue with them. He hadn’t been able to get his hands on it before, what with it being in Sir Gregor’s manor. But the Saxon was looking for a master. They were going without escort to the Île de France. And if they had the statue...
Conan’s narrow lips spread into a broad grin. It had been a long time since he had smiled, and the muscles on the side of his face were tight with disuse. Workman-like, he flexed his legs. He may have a stump where his right hand should be, but thank Christ his legs were sound. He could walk. He’d always been able to walk.
With a bloodless smile splitting his pain-creased face, Conan the beggar shook himself like his dog. There’d be no more beggary for him. He’d use one of the silver pennies to buy a loaf from the charitable fisherman’s wife who continued to lend him her roof at nights. He’d buy meat and a skinful of ale, and then he’d be off. He’d trail the handsome young couple who were heading for the Île de France. And seeing as the little madam was riding a mare that a princess would covet, they’d be easy to track, not that Conan was unduly concerned about losing them when he knew their destination.
Excitement and anticipation lent wings to his feet. There was only one reason why Ned Fletcher and his wife should head for the Île de France in August, and that was King Philip’s famous tournament. Perhaps the English Captain hoped to find his new master there. At his well-side vigil, Conan had heard the gossips say that Lady Wymark had taken against her niece’s husband because of his profession. That must be what had prompted them to leave.
Conan would follow the Fletchers to France.
Faithless as a whore, the fickle wind had changed and, belatedly, his ship was coming in.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘How will we find him?’ Gwenn asked, staring wide-eyed past the empty lists into a boiling crowd. ‘There must be nigh on a thousand soldiers here.’
Close by, the heralds were overseeing repairs to a fence which marked the limit of the jousting field. To one side of the lists stood a canopied platform, a ladder was propped precariously against it. At the top of the ladder a carpenter was nailing swathes of rich blue silk to the canopy. His apprentice – who was meant to be steadying the ladder – was winking at a girl with breasts as round and cheeks as rosy as the apples she was offering for sale. The ladder shifted, only an inch, but the carpenter yelped and clutched at a crossbeam. The roll of cloth fell, and a waterfall of blue silk poured over the dry earth. ‘Jesu, Pierre!’ The carpenter’s shriek cut across the hubbub. ‘Try to lift your mind above your belt! Hold the bloody ladder steady!’
Gwenn stifled a laugh. ‘Ned, did you see that?’
Ned wasn’t listening. He was sitting bolt upright in his saddle, blue eyes intent as he took it all in. He was thinking that everything was exactly as Sir Waldin had described it, only Sir Waldin had failed to convey the grand scale of it all. There was so much of everything – so many people, so many horses, so much noise and bustle. Dozens of multi-coloured pavilions were ranged round the fringe of the field like small jewels edging a bishop’s ring. The lists themselves were empty save for a scattering of swallows swooping low over the barriers. Ned’s lips parted as he measured the length of the course, and ambitious dreams swirled in his mind’s eye.
Ned was determined to do well and make a name for himself. Gwenn came of knightly stock and he wanted her to be proud of him. Sir Waldin had hinted that men could rise through the ranks here. On the face of it, Ned was already well on the way. He had started out as a plain man-at-arms. He had been promoted to sergeant, and then to captain. He had married a knight’s daughter – something which a year ago would have seemed inconceivable. If that could happen, why should he not become squire to some knight, and thus earn his knighthood? He’d make it happen. His cousin was the Duke of Brittany’s captain, so he had the right connections.
‘Ned?’
‘Mmm? What is it?
‘How will we find Alan in all of this?’ Gwenn gestured at the chaotic throng of pages and squires, of marshals and heralds, of knights and nobles. Apart from the apple-seller and a couple of crimson-lipped prostitutes, there did not seem to be many women about. She felt a twinge of unease.
Ned smiled abstractedly. ‘Oh, that’s easy. We keep our eyes peeled for Brittany’s pavilion. I can see the ermine from here.’
‘You’ve seen the Duke’s colours?’ Waldin St Clair had seen that that particular gap in Gwenn’s education had been filled. She knew the Duke of Brittany’s shield bore ermine – represented by black dots on a white ‘field’ or background.
‘Aye. I see them. We can enquire of Alan’s whereabouts from there.’
They ran Alan to earth later that afternoon, just beyond the King’s cookhouse on the outskirts of the sprawling encampment. He was stretched out on a wolf pelt by a fire in front of a small, patched tent. His hands pillowed his head, and he was watching the white clouds float by like thistledown on a sluggish summer wind. A smoky-blue plume rose vertically from his fire. He had a fish wrapped in leaves on a makeshift spit. Idly, he reached out and gave the skewer a turn.
When Ned’s shadow fell over him, Alan smiled at his cousin quite unsurprised, as though he had seen him not half an hour before. ‘You’ll share this with me, I take it, Ned? It’s trout. The King’s still in Paris, and the official fare will be poisonous until his chef gets here.’
‘It smells good. We’d love to share it,’ Ned said equably.
‘We?’ Alan’s gaze fell on Gwenn hovering uncertainly behind her husband, and a quiver ran through him.
‘Well met, Alan,’ Gwenn said. Alan’s easy manner left him and Gwenn felt even more awkward. Half of her had been longing to see him again, counting the miles as they rode, but the other half had been dreading it. And here he was, scowling at her as though she was a woman who had walked uninvited into a man’s world. And though it irritated her to admit it, she did indeed feel out of place. Ned should have come to the King’s tourney on his own. She was no great dame to accompany her husband to the joust. Only great ladies and whores followed the circuit. But she was Ned’s wife, and there’d been little for him at Ploumanach. Alis had tried to accept him, but she had never felt at ease with him. So with Philippe and Katarin safe and content at Wymark manor, he and Gwenn had decided to leave and fulfil Ned’s long-cherished dream.
‘Blanche.’ Alan sat up and tossed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. ‘This is an unlooked for pleasure. I dared not hope that you would come.’ He was covering up his surprise by playing the gallant. Picking up his cloak, he threw it over a mossy tree stump that the King’s men had failed to uproot, and indicated that Gwenn was to sit on it. It was a good couple of yards from his fire.
‘My thanks.’ Wishing she did not feel so defensive, Gwenn tried out a cheerful smile. ‘Should I not be here?’
Alan was once more at his cooking, with his back on her. His voice was muffled. ‘I thought you wouldn’t want to leave the children.’
‘It wasn’t easy,’ Gwenn said, and unconsciously her hand drifted to her stomach. ‘But my aunt loves them dearly, and I know she will give them the care they need.’
‘Gwenn is considering entering the Duchess’s household,’ Ned said. ‘Why are you laughing, Alan?’
‘I take it you want to see something of your wife?’
‘Naturally. That’s why we thought it best she–’
‘Entered the Duchess’s household?’ Alan gave his head a firm shake. ‘No, my innocent. Duke Geoffrey and Duchess Constance are hardly ever together. If you put Gwenn in the Duchess’s train and you enlist with the Duke’s company, you won’t see her more than about twice a year.’