With this decision made, Gwenn trusted that the cold, hard, miserable core within her would melt away. It did not. When her mother had died, her father had fallen to pieces. Gwenn was beginning to understand how he must have felt. People had tried to comfort her father by assuring him that time would ease his pain, but her father had been killed before that time had come. How long would it be for her? How long must she endure this?
Pulling the parcel that was the Stone Rose out of her saddlebag, she removed the wrappings and stared at it. ‘Why? Why did Ned have to die?’ Staring at the statue brought her no comfort. Indeed, it seemed to unleash a rush of memories, none of them happy. The Stone Rose had belonged to Izabel, and she had died violently. Her mother had had a shelf put up for it at Kermaria, and she was dead. Her father was dead, and Raymond. And now Ned, who had carried the statue all the way from Vannes to Ploumanach and thence into France. It was beginning to look as though the Virgin, or what it contained, was cursed. It was certainly no blessing. With a start, Gwenn realised that she was in sole possession of it. Would the curse affect her too?
Misliking the morbid trend of her thoughts, Gwenn bundled the Stone Rose into its shroud and thrust it to the bottom of her pack. Let it lie there.
Sitting lonely as a nun in her cell, she thought about the moment when she had sat with Alan in his tent and it had suddenly seemed so very important that she accompany him. Overwhelmed with the brutal and sudden nature of Ned’s death, she had looked across at Alan, and known she could not be parted from him.
She wondered whether he was glad to be back in his own country. England was unlike Brittany. The people were taller, more prosperous-looking. To Gwenn’s eyes they seemed sharper, more...worldly. Their voices were alien. French did not sing on an English tongue; and as for their common language, she wished now that she had troubled to learn more than the few phrases she had picked up from Ned. He had always taken pains to speak slowly and clearly so she understood his English, but these folk gabbled nineteen to the dozen, and she could hardly catch one word in twenty.
Pushing her bag onto the floor, Gwenn unpinned her veil, removed her outer garments, and stretched full-length on the pallet. Alan was right, it was lumpy. Sighing, she pummelled the worst of the lumps to oblivion, pulled the homespun blanket the monks had provided over herself, and closed her eyes. Alan had said it would take a few days to reach Yorkshire, he could teach her some English on the way. That way the journey would pass more swiftly.
***
Having missed the morning tide, Otto Malait was approximately twelve hours behind his quarry. He slept wrapped in his cloak on the rocking deck of his ship, and hoped the soldier-guide whom Gwenn Fletcher had apparently hired was not an early riser. When Otto had set out after her, he had not bargained on the trail leading him to England. It had cost him to buy passage across the Narrow Sea, and he was determined to snare Mistress Fletcher before it cost him much more. As Otto shifted angrily on his hard board bed and waited for sleep, he ground his stained teeth and hoped the dammed gemstone would be worth it.
***
After another day riding the horses into the ground, Alan pulled up at dusk outside an inn whose creaking board depicted a lanky bird, proclaiming it to be The Crane.
‘I’m sorry, Gwenn,’ Alan said, ‘there’s a Gilbertine nunnery a few miles ahead, and I hoped we would reach it by nightfall. We could have stayed there, but I misjudged the distance, and we must stop here or sleep by the road.’ He dismounted, went to Dancer’s head, and stroked the mare’s nose.
‘What’s wrong with this place?’ Gwenn asked. Despite the hard pace, she had enjoyed their ride. Against all expectation, it seemed she had shed some of her burden of grief at the Benedictine monastery. A casual glance did not reveal anything alarming about the roadside tavern. True, the sign could have done with repainting, but the doorstep had been swept clean, and someone had planted a profusion of marigolds in pots along the wall. ‘It doesn’t look any worse than the others we have passed, in fact it’s pretty.’
‘It’s no worse than the others, but I fear we shall have to sleep in the common room, for I doubt there’s a private chamber.’
Gwenn thought she understood Alan’s hesitation. Members of the knightly classes usually stayed in the monasteries, as they had done the previous night, while the lower orders confined themselves to the inns and taverns dotted across the countryside. It was the same in Brittany. ‘I’m not proud, Alan,’ she said. ‘I’ll take my chance with the fleas in the common chamber. To tell you the truth, last night was the first night I have ever slept on my own; before I always slept with Katarin, and Philippe, and–’
‘And Ned,’ Alan said, rather sharply, Gwenn thought.
‘And Ned, aye. And I must confess I didn’t like it much last night. I felt lonely.’ Heaving herself out of the saddle, she grabbed Alan’s arm for support. ‘Holy Mother, I’m stiff.’ She became aware that Alan stood like a menhir. She frowned, and released him. He was staring at her.
‘It’s good to see you looking better, Gwenn,’ he said, at last. ‘I’ll see if they have a private chamber.’
‘But Alan, I just told you...’ But Alan was already striding through the inn door and she was objecting to thin air. Throwing the animals’ reins loosely round a bramble, Gwenn followed him into the inn.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the landlord was saying, in English that was as clear as Ned’s had been. ‘We’ve only the one chamber up top. Your lady will have to sleep along with the rest of us.’
‘Damn!’ As Gwenn moved into Alan’s line of vision, his cheeks darkened.
‘I don’t mind where I sleep, landlord,’ Gwenn smiled. ‘Your common chamber will suit me very well.’
‘Very good, mistress. Would you care for some supper? We have the usual joints of ham, but as it’s getting late in the year it’s on the dry side. You might find the fish more to your taste. My wife has baked a fine perch tonight and we’ve a thick vegetable broth; or if you’d rather, we’ve salted eels and shellfish...’
***
Gwenn and another woman, a merchant’s wife, were the first to join the landlord’s three children in the upper chamber. A large room, it was reached by a stepladder from the tavern below. The common bedchamber was more of a loft than a room, and the only place where an adult could stand upright was at the centre, on account of the angle of the rafters. A lantern dangled from a hook in the central beam.
Notwithstanding the lack of headspace, Gwenn claimed a spot at the edge of the chamber where rafters met floor. She dug Ned’s cloak, the one that had been her father’s, out of her saddlebag, and spread it out on the rough-hewn boards. There were no palliasses here. Carefully placing her bag where she could use it as a pillow, she doused her candle, cocooned herself in her mantle, and set about courting sleep. Would Alan lie beside her, when he came up? She hoped so. The thought had her stomach fluttering. Gwenn did not relish the thought of wakening with a complete stranger beside her, but she would be happy with Alan at her side. More than happy. She wanted Alan beside her, to have him close. She could never love Alan as she had loved Ned, but she desired him, there was no point in pretending otherwise. She wanted him to come and lie beside her. She would like it if he kissed her, she knew she would. Lying on the boards, she tried to imagine him kissing her, and then, abruptly, she stopped herself. What was she doing? He had been very aloof of late. What did he think of her?
The merchant’s wife began to snore. Mice scratched in the rafters. The landlord’s children shuffled and groaned in their sleep. Gwenn lay awake listening to the noises, comfortable noises such as she had heard all her life, and wondered why she was not falling asleep. After she and Alan had finished their meal, she had been yawning over her wine, which was why she had come up. But now...
She wished Alan would hurry. She would feel better when he was here.
She must have drowsed, because when she next opened her eyes, he was squatted on his haunches beside her, the dangling lantern making a silhouette of him. He was looking at her, and she had the impression he had been there for some time. ‘Alan?’ His saddlebag lay some feet away. Gwenn held out a hand and, after a momentary hesitation, he took it. His thumb moved slowly across her knuckles, and she felt the beginnings of a response deep inside her, in the tightening of her stomach muscles. He was close enough for her to smell sweet wine on his breath. ‘Stay close by me, will you, Alan? I’m happier with you near.’