‘Oh, aye?’ Raymond answered equably, seating himself on the bed in the space recently vacated by Izabel. ‘Alright, little Gwenn?’ he asked, tweaking a lock of his sister’s hair.
‘Aye.’
Izabel reached her coffer. The hinges creaked as she grasped the lid.
‘Here, Grandmère, let me help you.’ Belatedly, Raymond sprang to his feet.
The lid fell back with a crack. ‘I’ve done it.’ Izabel was panting but triumphant, and holding a package.
‘You should have let me.’
‘Never mind, never mind. Raymond, listen. I’m going to give Our Lady to Gwenn. It’s for her and Katarin – for the girls. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Why in heaven’s name should I mind?’
Izabel looked momentarily nonplussed, as though her grandson’s question had put her off her stride. ‘No reason, no reason. Raymond, I want you to take this statue and hide it. Take it some miles from here, somewhere no one will think of searching.’
Raymond stared blankly at the parcel. ‘Why can’t you simply hand it over to Gwenn and have done, Grandmère? Why do I have to hide it?’
‘Because...because I want it out of here. As long as we have it with us, they’ll come looking for us. We’d not be left in peace. Without it, there’s a chance–’
‘They?’ Gwenn wondered. ‘Do you mean this Count de Roncier? I heard Sir Jean mention him, he’s behind this violence isn’t he?’
Izabel ignored her, murmuring, ‘We’re in danger while it’s here.’
‘Danger? What danger?’ Raymond asked. ‘What haven’t you told us, Grandmama?’
Izabel sank back onto Gwenn’s pallet, and fumbled for her granddaughter’s hand. ‘I can’t explain,’ she said, with a sharp glance at Raymond.
‘Grandmère, this is ridiculous. For Christ’s sake, what–?’
‘Raymond, I’ll thank you not to swear,’ Izabel said primly. ‘Will you help me or not?’
‘It must be some silly women’s secret,’ Raymond said, patronisingly, and when he saw a guilty spasm twist his grandmother’s face, he laughed. ‘I knew it!’
‘Raymond...’ Izabel’s voice was choked.
‘Oh, keep your secrets,’ he said, carelessly. ‘Relax, Grandmère, I’ll do as you ask. But I don’t see–’
Izabel waved her arms at him. ‘You’re not expected to see. Just take it, and hide it, and be sure you tell Gwenn where to find it. Remember, I’m giving it to her, not to you. It belongs to her. You’ll do that for me? At first light, mind?’
Raymond had intended going out before dawn in any case, for he had clandestine pleasures to pursue. He would not have to go out of his way to please his grandmother. ‘Yes, yes.’
‘Bless you, Raymond.’ Izabel yawned ostentatiously. ‘It is very late, my lad. I suggest we get what sleep we can, there’s not much of this night left.’
The young man recognised finality when he heard it in his grandmother’s voice and padded softly to the door. ‘Good night, Grandmère, goodnight, Gwenn.’
The latch rattled and Raymond was gone.
‘Men!’ Izabel muttered softly. ‘They’re all the same. We’ve aroused his curiosity now, my girl.’
‘Have we?’
‘He’ll be back in the morning, pestering us with questions. Never mind. He’s not as bad as most of them.’
‘You don’t like men much, do you, Grandmama?’
Izabel chucked Gwenn under the chin. ‘I don’t hate them all. There was one once,’ her voice went soft and dreamy, ‘but now I can’t even see his face.’ She caught her breath, and finished briskly. ‘That was long before you were born. Past history, my dear.’
‘Tell me about him,’ Gwenn urged, not feeling at all sleepy. ‘Was it Gwionn, the man you married?’ Izabel tensed, and Gwenn knew by grandmother’s posture that the barriers were in place again.
‘No. Some wounds never heal.’ A firm hand was placed on Gwenn’s chest, and she was pushed onto her pillow. ‘Go to sleep, my dear. You need your rest.’
‘But, Grandmama–’
‘Sleep,’ Izabel insisted. ‘But remember, the Virgin is my legacy to you.’
‘Thank you, Grandmama,’ Gwenn said, aware that the statue was her grandmother’s most treasured possession. ‘Mama calls it the Stone Rose.’
‘I know. We’ll talk further on the morrow. Remember, that statue has been my strength and security for many a long year. Now it can be yours. I want to know you’re provided for. I know you’ll take care of Katarin.’ Lovingly, Izabel smoothed Gwenn’s coverlet into place.
‘Yes, Grandmama.’
‘You’ll have cause to thank me for it one day.’ Izabel said, smothering a yawn.
‘Thank you, Grandmama. I do love you.’ And then Gwenn shut her eyes lest she was treated to one of Izabel’s lectures.
‘God Bless you, my dear.’
***
François de Roncier stood before the dying fire in the solar at Huelgastel and ran an exasperated hand through his cropped copper hair. He regarded his Breton Captain guardedly. ‘What is it, le Bret?’
Having bearded the lion in his den, Alan saw no reason to beat about the bush. ‘Mon seigneur, I come on behalf of my company. The quarter day is here. I take it you’ll be honouring your debts?’
‘Naturally. The money’s in the vaults.’ The Count rubbed the side of his nose. ‘I’ll dispense it on the morrow, as soon as you have executed your commission.’
Alan stared. ‘Mon seigneur, we have already executed our commission.’
‘Not quite, Captain.’ Count François gave a cold smile. ‘They remain in Vannes, do they not?’
‘I’ll warrant it won’t be for long. They’ll be gone within the week.’ A brief glance told Alan that this private family solar was more exotically furnished than the communal hall below. The lower half of the walls was decorated with a frieze of life-sized herons. Above the frieze, the stonework was painted and the pointing picked out in red. Tapestries adorned the upper walls, framed by an intricate array of roof beams, with bold multi-coloured chevrons drawing the eye the length of the beams from corbels to apex. Alan noticed the delicate glass in the Count’s hand, and the rich, ruby wine he was sipping. His lord lived well.
‘A week is too long,’ the Count said. ‘Captain, you’re to return to Vannes and see them off. I want you to execute,’ he put heavy emphasis on the word execute, ‘your commission as thoroughly as you are able. There’s not to be the slightest chance they’ll come back.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the door by which the Dowager Countess had left. ‘And I do not wish to be implicated. Understand?’
‘I’m not certain I do understand you, mon seigneur.’
‘You’ve wits, le Bret. Use them. I speak plainly.’
Alan le Bret’s grey eyes bored into the Count’s. François waited, hoping his captain was not going to be difficult. He considered this a trifling matter to be finished with swiftly. He could not afford any marks on his slate when he approached the French King with his proposals. An aspiring Duke must have no family skeletons lurking in closets.
‘Well, Captain?’
‘If I understand you correctly, mon seigneur, I’m bound to say I like it not.’
‘You’re not paid to like it!’ First his mother had been putting obstacles in his path, and now this presumptuous mercenary was pitching in with his pennyworth. ‘Mon Dieu, you’re paid to obey!’
‘I’m not paid at all,’ le Bret said, dry as dust. ‘Mon seigneur, you know very well that my men are paid by the quarter, not by the commission. And the quarter day has passed. Our money is due now.’
There was a short silence, and the two men circled each other, wary as dogs with their hackles raised.
François decided he would not like to confront this man in open combat, when his true nature would be unleashed. Le Bret was a determined, ruthless man. A calculating man. Could he be bought, he wondered?