Would the Norseman torture her to find out where she had put the gemstone? Would he share the proceeds with Alan?
The horse, a stallion, thundered up to her. The Viking hauled on his reins, and the beast came to a shuddering halt. Hot, horsey breath fanned her face.
‘Well met, Mistress Fletcher,’ Otto Malait flung himself to the ground and dived at her throat. ‘I’ve been scouring all England for you.’
***
Outside Sword Point Farm, Alan dismounted gingerly, groaning in relief when his feet touched firm ground. He had a hangover, and every step of the road from Richmond had set a hammer beating on the anvil of his brain.
He tethered Firebrand to a bay tree in his aunt’s overgrown herb garden. The door was ajar. He rapped his knuckles on it, and the noise made him flinch. His nerves were shredded that morning, and he only had himself to blame. He had run into old drinking companions the evening before and had been drawn into lengthy reminiscences around the forge with his friends and his stepfather. He and Ivon were fully reconciled, and during the course of the evening, much ale had been drunk, and much wine. ‘It’s the combination that’s the killer,’ Alan muttered to himself, angry at his own stupidity.
There was no response from the farmhouse. Agnes was growing deaf. Wincing, Alan knocked once more, and raised his voice, ‘Agnes? Gwenn?’ His throat was as gritty as a mason’s file.
‘In here, Alan. Come straight in.’
Agnes was climbing painstakingly down the stairs from the loft. Alan helped her down the last few rungs. ‘I thought you moved your bed downstairs because you find the stairs a trial.’
Agnes smiled. ‘I do find them a trial.’
Alan led his aunt to the trestle and pulled out a bench for her. ‘You should ask Gwenn if you need something down from the loft. Where is she?’
‘Gone to the river. Didn’t you spot her from the road?’
‘No.’ Alan rubbed sore eyes. ‘I can hardly see out this morning.’
‘Good night, was it, nephew?’
Alan groaned, sank onto the bench, and closed his eyes.
‘Alan, I think you should go and see if Gwenn is safe.’
Weary grey eyes peered past hooded lids. ‘Why shouldn’t Gwenn be safe? She’s only gone to the river.’
‘No, Alan. I think you should go. Something has happened. It’s connected with that blessed statue. She rushed in here talking about messengers from Normandy.’
Her nephew’s head shot up. ‘Messengers from Normandy? Who?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Alan caught her wrist. ‘Think, Aunt, exactly what did she say?’
‘A White Canon told her a horseman rode in from Dieppe, someone she knew in Vannes. He has been asking questions. Gwenn took the figurine to the river and... Alan?’
The door cracked against its frame, and seeing that she was speaking to an empty room, Agnes shook her head and smiled.
Charging into the yard, Alan remembered his sword. In his befuddled state that morning, he had jammed it under his pack at the back of the saddle. Cursing the few seconds’ delay, he dragged it out, buckled it into place, and flung himself on Firebrand. The farmhouse was surrounded with a split-rail fence to keep the White Canons’ sheep from the cottage garden, and though it was down in places, his route was barred by a gate. Alan dug in his spurs. The courser cleared the gate with ease, and then they were galloping over Swaledale’s springy turf, noses pointed to the river.
The greensward sloped gently away from them. At the bottom, in front of the trees, two figures were struggling. A hulking great warhorse with its reins slack about its head placidly cropped the grass. It was the horse that betrayed to Alan the identity of the mysterious visitor from Normandy. The animal was past its best, a lanky grey, long in the bone, and he recognised it. Otto Malait favoured that horse.
Alan spurred Firebrand and was carried down the hill faster than the wind. Of all people, he wished it were not Otto Malait.
He was almost there, and not a heartbeat too soon, for the Viking’s fingers were a vice round Gwenn’s throat. Her face was puce. She must have knocked Malait’s helmet off, for it lay on the grass, next to the Stone Rose which had been separated from its stand. The wooden shards lay in the grass at Gwenn’s feet. The drawstring pouch was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where is it, girl?’ Otto shook her, easing his grip on her throat to allow her to speak. She hung like a child’s rag doll from his giant’s hands, and let out a groan. Otto renewed his grip, and weakly she tried to free herself.
Alan wanted to cry out, to shriek at Malait to release her, but he urged Firebrand on and bit on his tongue. Malait had his back to him and did not appear to have heard him. The Norseman was wearing a mail tunic, but his arms were unprotected. Alan had the element of surprise on his side, and he must make the most of it, for if he did not, Malait would not scruple at holding Gwenn as a hostage against him.
Thanking God that all his wits did not appear to have been drowned in last night’s ale, Alan gripped his sword and bent low over his saddle. If he could charge past the Norseman and make a pass as he did so... It was a coward’s strike. It was not the sort of blow that an honourable man would make, but what choice did he have?
He was almost on them, and with a sick sense of dread he saw Gwenn’s hands go slack and her arms swing loose at her sides. Gwenn had lost consciousness. Legs hugging Firebrand’s barrel chest, Alan pointed his sword. A dozen yards to go... nine... six... three...
At the last moment, Otto started, and swung round. The pale eyes bulged. He dropped Gwenn and leaped sideways, but he was not fleet enough and Alan’s sword caught him a glancing blow on his unmailed arm. Wheeling Firebrand round, Alan did not pause to let him recover, but charged again. Otto snatched out his sword and backed to where Gwenn lay senseless on the grass.
Terror tugged Alan’s entrails. ‘No! Leave her!’
Otto’s grin was lost in his beard. ‘Come off your high horse and fight me on equal terms, le Bret.’ Standing over the unconscious girl, Otto delivered a bruising kick to her buttocks. She made a choking sound in her throat. ‘Oh, listen, le Bret,’ he declared in tones of amazement, ‘she’s breathing. But not, I think, for much longer.’ He bent over her.
‘You bastard!’ Alan swung his leg over Firebrand’s neck so as to avoid making his opponent a present of his back, and jumped. His insides were liquid with fear for Gwenn. ‘I’m down! Let her alone. Has she told you where it is?’
Otto straightened. The look on his face told Alan she had not.
‘If you kill her, you’ll never find it,’ Alan warned him, urgently.
‘She’s not told you?’
‘Me?’ Alan could not keep the bitterness from his tone. ‘When I’ve already tried to steal it? Do you really think she’d trust a mercenary?’
The two men circled each other. ‘Never thought I’d see you lose colour over a wench, le Bret,’ Otto said. ‘Or is it the thought of losing her riches?’
On the grass, Gwenn coughed, and her limbs made a tentative movement. She would have to recover unaided, for Alan’s hands were fully occupied with the Norseman. Praying that Malait’s mount would not trample her, Alan tried to clear his wine-fuddled mind. Firebrand could be relied on never to step on a human body; an intelligent horse would never harm anyone without good reason. But Malait’s horse? Alan could not say what it would do.
Alan tried to focus his blurred thoughts. Gwenn must have removed the gem from the statue before Malait had found her. If Alan could distract him while she came to her senses, she might be able to mount Firebrand and ride to the White Canons for help.
Otto’s sword sparked in the sun. Alan warded it off. The blow jarred his arm and set off ringing noises in his head, but his fighting reflexes took over and his blood surged through his veins. Despite the ringing noises, he was still in command of himself. He could fight.