The tourney field might be deserted, but the camp site was not. It had taken Otto most of the afternoon to verify that Gwenn was not lodged in one of the tents in the Breton section. He had combed the entire encampment, and when he was stopped and challenged as to his business there, he answered with questions of his own. Finally, when he had eliminated the last possible tent from his enquiries, he was forced to conclude that she had gone. And if what he had learned was correct, the concubine’s daughter was proving to be just as much the whore as her mother had been. Ned Fletcher – this had been easy to discover – had been killed. A young woman had been sighted riding off in the company of the Duke’s captain. She had been riding at the back of the ducal funeral train, heading for Paris.
Paris. With a face as black as Death himself, Otto threw his saddle on his horse, secured the girth and vaulted up. The man from whom he had squeezed that little gem had been short-sighted, and he had been unable to describe accurately either the young woman or her mount.
Otto cantered towards Paris, but he could not be positive that he was following the right trail. At present, it was the only trail he had.
Thinking back to his time at Kermaria, Otto recalled being surprised that the pedlar had never returned for his purse. He’d come to the conclusion that Conan must have come to a grisly end wrangling over a bottle of wine. He’d hung onto his purse and forgotten him. Indeed, he’d had had a fine few days spending the pedlar’s money. And when he had arrived at the encampment and spotted Conan hanging around the cookhouse, Otto had kept his distance, his curiosity aroused. He noticed that the pedlar had lost a hand, but that alone would not have prevented him from doing trade with de Roncier. The only circumstance that might prevent the pedlar from working for the Count, Otto reasoned, was if he was after larger game...
Initially, Conan had been stubbornly reluctant to share his good fortune with his old friend. But Otto had dragged him into the forest and had loosened his tongue. And then the pedlar had talked too much – screaming, begging, pleading. Otto didn’t think much of men who squealed like pigs. He had learned that the pedlar was not the only old acquaintance attending this tourney. Ned Fletcher had arrived with the concubine’s daughter, whom he had married. Conan had revealed that the girl had in her possession a pink stone statue of the Virgin Mary – a statue Otto knew existed, for he had held it in his own hands. Conan swore the statue had a heart that was worth a king’s ransom.
Otto had long brooded on the incident when Gwenn had helped Alan make him a laughing-stock. At the time, he had accepted that the Dowager Countess had been mistaken concerning the existence of a gemstone. Like Count François, Otto had dismissed the tale as nothing more than the embroidered ramblings of a toothless crone. But now, having heard the pedlar’s garbled testimony, Otto was a wiser man. Johanna had spent several months with the St Clair brat, time enough to stumble across the truth. If the pedlar’s grubby sister swore the gemstone existed, the gemstone existed. Otto’s fingers itched to claim it for his own. This time, he vowed, it would not be he who was crowned with asses’ ears.
His blood tingled with excitement. Otto wanted to be free from the tyrant work. He wanted to be free from worrying about money. He wanted to be free of Count François. In short, he wanted to be his own man. It was not that he minded fighting, he loved it; but he longed to pick his fights when he wanted, and not at another’s bidding. Digging in his spurs so sharply that they drew blood, he urged his horse to a gallop.
If he hurried, he would make the city gates by nightfall.
***
The Duchess of Brittany was most generous with Alan when he came to take his leave of her.
‘So you are Alan le Bret,’ the Duchess said, looking at him thoughtfully. ‘A Breton Captain for the Duke of Brittany. I must say, though you are dark you don’t have the Breton look. You’re too tall.’
‘I was born in England, Your Grace, near Richmond, and I took my name from the man who brought me up, not knowing my real father. My...my stepfather was the Breton, my mother is of the old Saxon blood.’
‘Le Bret,’ the Duchess murmured frowning. She gave him a keen look. ‘You say you hail from Richmond?’
‘Aye.’
‘Your stepfather could not by chance be Ivon le Bret, the armourer?’
‘The same.’
‘I remember Ivon. A good craftsman.’ The Duchess gave him a pale smile. ‘My husband spoke well of you, Alan le Bret.’
‘You are kind, Your Grace.’
‘No. I merely speak the truth. I am sorry you feel you must resign now he is gone. Is it that you do not relish having a woman as your commander?’
‘Your Grace–’
‘I would never turn off a good man, Captain le Bret.’
‘Your Grace, I know that. But I have sworn to visit my father. He is old now, and–’
‘I understand. He’s still at Richmond?’
‘Aye.’
‘I wish you God Speed. You have your arrears of pay?’
‘Thank you, Your Grace, I have. And I have returned my horse to your stablemaster.’
The Duchess Constance arched a slim, charcoal-darkened brow. ‘Which of my husband’s horses did you ride?’
‘Firebrand, Your Grace.’
‘And did you find him to your liking?’
‘Very much so.’
An elegant white hand waved. ‘Keep him, Alan le Bret.’
Alan blinked. ‘K...keep Firebrand, Your Grace?’
Another airy gesture dismissed his protestations. ‘It will save you hiring one for your ride home, though you’ll have to pay to ship him to England.’
Alan was overwhelmed. The gift of the courser was largesse he had not looked for. ‘You are very generous, Your Grace.’
Duchess Constance bent her head to examine the stamped terracotta tiles at her feet. ‘No. My husband would have wished it, I am sure,’ she said softly. When she lifted her eyes, Alan saw they were moist. She cleared her throat, ‘You may go now.’
‘Duchess.’ Alan bent his knee, and walked for the door.
‘Captain?’
‘Your Grace?’
‘When you decide you are ready to work again, remember that I need good men at my castle in Richmond, but because of the edict banning mercenaries, it would have to be on a different basis.’
‘Your Grace, I am very grateful.’
‘Get you gone, Alan le Bret. And send my love to Yorkshire, will you? Wild as it is, I love that place, and count it my true home.’
***
Gwenn was uncommunicative as they rode to the Norman coast.
They had sold the gelding Sir Gregor loaned to Ned, but kept the mule. Alan drove their horses as hard as he could, for it kept his mind off worrying about her. They were on the road to Dieppe where he could book passage on a trader. Riding hard would also serve to keep his mind off the other, less altruistic thoughts which leaped into his head every time he looked at her.
The countryside rolled past him unobserved. The shape of Gwenn’s lips made his own feel dry. The shining tendrils of hair which escaped from her veil and played about her cheeks made him long to reach across and twine them round his fingers. Irritated with himself, he would drag his eyes from her and attempt to rivet them to the horizon ahead. But not long would pass before he would realise his gaze was lingering on the curve of her hip and thigh. Angrily, hating himself, he would lift his eyes to that distant horizon. Another moment would pass, and before he knew it he would be admiring the way she rode, head high, veil billowing behind her. He had not felt so intensely while Ned had been alive. It was as though Ned had been a living shield, and the strength of his cousin’s love had not only kept Alan at a distance, it had protected him, keeping him unaware of the depths of his feelings for Gwenn. The journey to the Norman port was a thousand times more painful than when he had escorted them from Vannes to Ploumanach.