‘Naturally,’ Marie agreed. Now was not the time to dispute Eleanor’s depressing lack of fertility. She picked up the puzzle box. When it was new it had kept Arlette amused for hours. It had come back from the Lebanon as part of a crusader’s booty; and it had probably been designed to be a reliquary box. It opened only when three of the Saints haloes were depressed at the same time. ‘But, consider, François, if we consult with our peers, I think you might find we have the law on our side. Izabel was in default, and we...you are in possession.’ A peek at her son’s disgruntled face told her that he was not won over. A man of action, words never counted for much with him.
‘Mother, don’t think I’ll balk at acting without your support.’
‘I don’t,’ Marie admitted tersely. ‘I don’t want a whelp of St Clair’s lording it over us on our holdings any more than you do.’
The hazel eyes gleamed. ‘Today was calculated to scare them off, once and for all.’
Marie bent her head and applied pressure to three of the carved haloes. Nothing happened. It was a clever toy. She tried another combination. ‘What will you do next?’
‘Watch them run.’
‘And if they do not?’
‘They’ll run,’ François said with conviction. ‘I’m sending my men there again tomorrow at noon.’
Marie threw her son a sharp look. Worry gnawed at her insides, as for the first time it struck her that she might not be able to control her son now that his father had gone to God. François’ nostrils were flaring. He was losing patience, and the hot embers were glowing in his cheeks. She must step warily. ‘Izabel’s foolish marriage caused bloodshed once,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t want anyone else to die over this.’
‘Bloodshed, ma mère?’
Bending over the Lebanese box, Marie murmured, ‘Gwionn was killed, or had you forgotten?’
He had not forgotten. ‘Your brother, Tanguy, challenged him to a duel.’
‘Aye. Tanguy refused to believe Izabel de Wirce had married a landless squire. He killed Gwionn, and Izabel fled. Mama caught her leaving, and though it broke her heart, she did not prevent her going. Mama gave Izabel her statue of Our Lady. Mama loved that statue.’
François could see his mother’s eyes were full of ghosts.
‘Mama should have given the statue to me, for I stayed and tried to put right what Izabel had put wrong.’
Forbearing to point out that it had suited his mother to stay and ‘put things right’ as she had designs on Count Robert de Roncier, François tossed back another glassful of wine.
Marie was silent, thinking about the statue. There had been something unusual about it... At that moment Arlette’s box slid open. ‘Aha! Done it!’ she exclaimed delightedly, and peered inside. The box was empty but for the spicy scent of cedar of Lebanon. ‘Oh, that smell, it takes me back years. The base of Mother’s statue held that same tangy perfume, it must have been made from the same wood.’ And, like Arlette’s box, the base of the statue had opened. Picking her brains, Marie extracted a vague child’s recollection of her mother conjuring a gem as if from the heart of the Virgin. The child that she had been had thought it magic. Magic. Lurching to her feet, leaning heavily on her cane, Marie hobbled to her son. If she did but know it, for a second her black eyes shone with the cunning of a fox scenting its prey.
‘Mother?’
Marie blinked the look away, but her eyes remained bright. ‘There’s a secret compartment in the base of the statue, François! A gemstone is concealed there.’
‘In the Blessed Virgin?’ François stroked the tawny stubble on his chin. ‘Your imagination is running away with you. Izabel’s piety is legendary in Vannes. She would not mock Our Lady in such a way.’
The thin lips smiled, confidently. ‘No, François. It was my mother’s device, not Izabel’s. My mother, Andaine, had the gem put there to keep it from Father. Arlette’s toy has put me in mind of it. That fragrance...that distinctive fragrance...’
François was wondering if his father’s death had unhinged his mother. Her eyes were as sharp as her bodkin, she appeared to be in sound mind...
‘I’d forgotten about the jewel,’ Marie continued. ‘As a child I did not know its worth. At the time I thought it simply a pretty toy, but it’s big, François, big as a blackbird’s egg. It should have been mine. Why should Izabel have had that and Robert’s love? She had it all.’
‘Ma mère, the house she lives in, though adequate, hardly speaks of a life of luxury.’
‘Good.’ This with spite.
Wearily, Count François poured another goblet of wine and wished that skirmishing with his mother was less debilitating.
The fire crackled and a log shifted, sending up a small tower of sparks. ‘I’d wager they’ve not sold it,’ Marie added.
‘What, after all these years?’ François scoffed. ‘Mother, if Izabel ever had such a jewel, which I doubt, it’s been long gone.’
Marie lifted her chin. ‘There was a gem, and Izabel would have kept it. I know her miserly nature. She’d not part with anything unless she had to. First she and Yolande were in that convent, and no sooner had they left, than Yolande took up with St Clair. They have the gem. I feel it in my bones.’
‘Dear Lord, spare me from women’s instincts.’ François stared at the ruby liquid glinting in the delicate glass and fought to keep his temper.
‘I want that statue,’ Marie said. And so she would not be fobbed off, she placed herself directly before him. ‘You must – how shall I put it? You must reappropriate it before my sister and her family leave Vannes.’
Her son knuckled bleary hazel eyes, and did not respond.
‘François?’ Marie cracked her cane on the floor. ‘Show some grit, will you?’
Jerkily, he crashed his priceless, fragile goblet onto the table, but by some miracle it remained whole. ‘Grit? Grit? Blood of Christ, madame, you wrong me! I’m the one who wants to make a clean sweep of things. It is you who is ever yapping caution, caution. All I want is to keep my father’s lands.’
Unmoved, Marie shook her cane at him. ‘You have your father’s lands. Sweet Jesu, if it weren’t for the fact that I birthed you myself, I’d wonder sometimes whose son you were. You’ve less brains than a sheep. I’ve told you, François, you’ll never have to defer to St Clair on the de Wirce lands. They don’t have a case to answer. We’ve held uncontested title for thirty years. All I’m asking you to do is not to harm Izabel’s family. And I want that statue.’
‘I’d prefer to cut my way out of this mess cleanly. Getting the statue will slow things down, it will cause unnecessary complications’
‘So? Let it.’ Marie’s thin lips curved. ‘Counts can afford complications.’
Reluctantly, François capitulated. There would be no peace in his castle until his mother had Andaine’s statue. ‘Very well. If it pleases you, you shall have it. But I still intend pushing them out of Vannes.’
‘My thanks.’ The black eyes that stared past the proud nose were unwavering. ‘If you feel you must push the Herevis out, then I’ll not try to sway you, but I want your sworn oath they’ll come to no harm.’
‘Very well, ma mère. I’ll not touch a hair on their heads. I’ll swear it on Father’s tomb if necessary, but if the day ever dawns when St Clair marries Yolande Herevi, I shall consider that vow void.’
Marie allowed a complacent smile to soften the lines on her face. ‘There’s not the remotest possibility of St Clair marrying Yolande Herevi. I told you, knights don’t marry their concubines. Even St Clair wouldn’t stoop so low. Will you get the statue tomorrow?’
François held down a sigh. ‘Don’t bleat. If the gem is there, it’s as good as in your grasp.’
The thin mouth was prim again. ‘It’s my mother’s statue of Our Lady, that I want, François. The jewel is incidental.’