‘Go on, Ned. I’m poor company at the moment, and I just want to rest.’
‘I won’t be long,’ he promised. Before Gwenn blinked he had gone.
***
Later that afternoon, the Duke’s messenger, a well-favoured young Breton with a bushy thatch of curly brown hair and brilliant brown eyes, swaggered up to the tent asking for Ned Fletcher. He was wearing an antique, battered gambeson which Gwenn assumed to have been handed down to him from one of the Duke’s knights. His chausses were filthy, and a large rent flapped open at his thigh. He had a cut on his hand, and both his face and hair were slick with sweat. He looked as though he’d galloped all the way from Jerusalem, and Gwenn was taken aback that the Duke should permit such ill-kempt men to assist him. The messenger seemed careless of his appearance, and on sighting Gwenn in Captain Alan le Bret’s quarter’s, an interested light sparked in the deep brown eyes. He produced a practised smile.
Gwenn ignored both the interested light and the too-charming smile, and waved in the direction of the lists. ‘My husband’s over there.’
A lanky lad, the messenger was standing too close, as though he thought he could try to dominate her with his imposing inches. ‘You’re married to the man who was foolish enough to get his master killed?’
Gwenn stiffened, discomposed for a moment as a spasm of pain ran through her. Ned’s former master and her father were one and the same, but the messenger was not to know that. She eyed him coolly. The Duke’s messenger was insolent, and he had not yet controlled that irritating leer. Then Gwenn realised the young man misconstrued her hesitation. His grin was actually broadening. Arrogant young pup. ‘Aye, I’m married,’ she said, icily.
‘Dommage,’ the young man murmured, ‘what a pity.’ Giving her a courtly bow, he took her hand, and before she realised what he was about, he lifted it to his lips and deposited a series of swift kisses on her knuckles. ‘However,’ he continued in a brighter tone, ‘if you are the wife of this Ned Fletcher, I see I shall have to take him on.’
‘Take him on? You?’ She reclaimed her hand. ‘What are you saying? It’s not up to you, surely?’
The messenger bowed. His eyes were positively smouldering. ‘Oh, but it is. My squire is ailing, and,’ ruefully Gwenn’s courtier indicated his filthy, torn clothing, ‘as you see, I am in dire need of another.’
‘But....but....?’ Gwenn swallowed. She had been grossly mistaken as to this man’s identity, this was no lackey. ‘Wh....who are you?’
‘Raoul Martell, madame.’
‘You...you’re a knight?’
Another bow. Another assured, infuriating grin. ‘Indeed, and at your service, madame.’
‘Ned’s used to a captain’s position,’ Gwenn blurted, and could have bitten her tongue out, for she did not want to stand in the way of Ned finding the work that he wanted.
Sir Raoul raised a brow. He was one of those rare people whose eyes could dance while he frowned. ‘You think your husband unsuitable for me?’
‘Unsuitable? No, of course not. It...it isn’t that,’ Gwenn back-tracked hastily. This was Ned’s chance to set his foot on the noble, knightly ladder. ‘My husband’s a hard worker. I’m sure you would find him very suitable.’
‘You say he’s watching at the lists, Mistress Fletcher?’
Raoul Martell pronounced her name as though he were caressing it, and his eyes were so dark they had no light in them at all. Gwenn shivered, and edged towards the tent flap. ‘Aye. You’ll find Ned at the lists.’
‘How will I know him?’
‘He’s taller than most, with thick flaxen hair.’ A reckless demon made her add, ‘He’s very handsome.’
Undaunted, Sir Raoul gave her a bow worthy of the Duchess Constance herself, and went jauntily towards the lists.
***
Though the post was temporary, Ned jumped at the chance Sir Raoul offered him. He was so keen to prove himself an able squire that he did not leave Sir Raoul’s side for the rest of that day. He carried the knight’s lances and saw to his horses – a wealthy man, Sir Raoul had more than one mount. Ned cleaned and sharpened his master’s sword, he had Sir Raoul’s second hauberk mended, and all the while he was hoping that his diligence would be rewarded by permission to assist the knight when it came to the grand tourney.
Ned apologised for his neglect of her, but Gwenn hadn’t minded. She had been feeling queasy, and was only too glad to be left to her own devices. Besides, Alan seemed to have time on his hands, and he visited her more than once that afternoon. On the first occasion, he startled her by mentioning that he had informed the Duke of the injustice visited on her family by François de Roncier. The Duke had promised he would look into it. Dryly, Alan had added that large wheels turned slowly. Gwenn sensed that he was unhappy at his Duke’s lukewarm response. On his second visit – to fetch his spare dagger – he informed her that he planned taking a lengthy leave of absence from the Duke after the tourney, which strengthened her feeling that he was disillusioned with his carefree Duke. By the time Alan appeared for the third time, she was wondering if Ned had asked him to keep an eye on her. She did not wish to be an imposition.
At dusk she lit their fire, and she and Alan sat before it, staring into the crackling flames, waiting for Ned. ‘There’s no need to keep coming back to the tent tomorrow, Alan,’ she said, hugging her knees. Like baleful yellow eyes, cooking fires and braziers were winking into life all about them. ‘It must be irritating for you, having to see to me,’ she pressed on, ‘but I feel safe. I’m only a bowshot from the lists, all I have to do is call out, and a dozen cavaliers would rush to help.’
Alan’s head came up. He remembered the ragged thief he’d chased from the tent. It was more than likely the wretch had gone for good and would not harm a woman, but one never knew. Earlier, at the time of the evening Angelus, the heavy evening air had brought the echo of Paris’s distant cathedral bells into the tiltyard. While the bells were ringing, Alan had seen a cowled figure skulking behind the King’s cookhouse. It seemed unlikely that the thief would risk capture by being caught in the same place twice, but he had a powerful suspicion it was the same man. Alan had managed to get a glimpse of the fellow’s features the second time. It was Conan, the pedlar from Vannes. He was therefore not entirely sure that Gwenn was safe. If her husband could not be with her, then he must. But he did not want her alarmed.
‘It’s not an imposition,’ Alan said, sincerely. ‘My duties have been light of late, and I enjoy your company.’
Conscious of a tug in the region of her heart, Gwenn looked away. ‘Why thank you, Alan,’ she said, voice husky. ‘I...I like your company also.’ A black brow twitched upwards, and she was moved to enlarge. ‘I never have to pretend with you. I can be myself. You make me feel at ease.’
‘At ease,’ Alan murmured softly.
She had the obscure feeling that her remark had displeased him.
‘Like with Ned?’ Alan forced the question through his lips, not because he wanted to, but because he found he had to, though he knew he couldn’t expect an honest answer. To his astonishment, she tried to give him one.
‘N...no. Not at all like Ned. Ned’s predictable, while you’re...you’re not predictable at all.’
He laughed. ‘And this unpredictability puts you at ease?’
‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Some people can be predictable, but it’s not at all reassuring. You’re not inclined to judge, Alan, maybe it’s that. No. It’s not that. You’re cold–’
‘Cold?’ He shot her a hooded look. If only she knew. He did not feel at all cold towards her. Ned’s wife, he reminded himself. She is married to my cousin; she is my best friend’s wife.
‘Aye. You’re detached, but I like that. You’re careless of other people’s views.’
‘Careless?’
‘If their ideas don’t match yours, you don’t seek to convert them. You let them be. You wouldn’t impose your will on anyone.’