‘Where’s Raymond?’ Yolande asked, fastening her cloak with a silver filigree brooch in the shape of a butterfly.
‘We’ve no idea,’ Izabel responded. ‘We know what he’s doing, but not where. He’ll be back later this morning.’
The floorboards creaked and Jean St Clair walked slowly in. Katarin had attached herself to one of his hands and was trying out her paces at her father’s side. Gwenn’s mouth fell open. This was the first time that she had known her father to have spent the whole night with her mother. Normally he slept elsewhere. It was a shallow pretence Gwenn had long suspected he kept up for her sake. Such a departure from his carefully established habit could only mean that he was profoundly concerned for them, and that he intended to protect them.
‘Good morning, ladies.’ He smiled, and released his daughter’s hands. Katarin sat down with a bump. ‘Where’s the boy?’
Yolande answered. ‘Not here.’
‘Devil blast him!’
‘I’ll thank you to remember the company you’re in, Sir Jean,’ Izabel said, throwing a meaningful look at Gwenn. ‘You’re not in an alehouse.’
‘My apologies,’ unrepentantly, Jean stroked his trim moustache, ‘but the lad would have to choose this morning of all mornings to go gallivanting. Are you sure neither of you knows where he has gone?’
Izabel folded her hands primly under her bosom. ‘He’s running an errand for me.’
Gwenn had a pretty shrewd idea where her brother had gone, for he had confided in her of his infatuation with the farmer’s daughter, and he had once let fall that they met in a dolmen near Locmariaquer. Providently, Katarin crawled into Gwenn’s line of vision, giving her something to pin her gaze on. She had never been any good at lying, and if her parents had the slightest suspicion that she knew of Raymond’s whereabouts, they would be bound to winkle it out of her.
Sinking to Katarin’s level, she offered her sister a supporting hand. ‘Good morning, sweetheart.’ Katarin grabbed her fingers and clung like a limpet. The unformalised nature of the relationship between her mother and father did not mean that Raymond’s affair with a farmer’s daughter would be taken lightly. Yolande had taken pains to instil into her son that love was not a game, and Gwenn was in no doubt that her brother would be severely reprimanded if his secret were discovered. Her father’s views on the subject, like Raymond’s, were ambivalent – typically male. While Gwenn did not condemn either her brother or her father for their opinions, Gwenn, by virtue of her female sex, had ideas that were closer to her mother’s. What sensible woman could afford to think otherwise? It was women who were ultimately responsible for the consequences of casual affairs. Gwenn had always been puzzled that her mother should have turned to St Clair in the first place. She must have been desperate to help Izabel. Or deeply in love. Or both.
But it was not her mother’s history that was at issue here. Should Raymond’s secret come out, he would be in trouble, and whatever Gwenn might think of Raymond’s dalliance with the farmer’s daughter, it was his affair, and Raymond must not suffer because she was a poor liar.
St Clair spoke briskly, ‘We’re leaving Vannes today.’
‘Leaving?’ Gwenn gasped. ‘Today?’
‘Aye. I suspect de Roncier was behind yesterday’s incident, but as none of his men were seen here, we cannot prove anything. Personally, I doubt he’s audacious enough to move openly against us, but to put everyone’s minds at rest, we’ll be leaving this morning.’
‘This morning?’ Gwenn echoed.
‘Where are we going?’ her grandmother demanded.
‘My manor at Kermaria.’
Gwenn’s grandmother blinked, and sank onto her bed, expression dazed. ‘Kermaria? In truth, you’re taking us there?’
Jean smiled. ‘Aye.’
Izabel’s mouth worked. ‘Oh, Jean,’ her voice was weak. ‘You’re acknowledging the children? Openly?’
He inclined his head. ‘It won’t affect their legitimate status I’m afraid, but–’
‘But for them to have a father,’ Izabel’s aged eyes were moist with tears. ‘Oh, Jean, how I have prayed for this day.’ She was so overcome, she made an attempt at humour. ‘We...we’ll almost be respectable.’
‘When are we leaving?’ Gwenn stared at her father, unable to believe in this new turn of events. Gwenn only had one friend in Vannes, Irene Brasher, it was not as if she would be leaving anyone behind. But for all that her family had been outcasts, Vannes was all she knew. She had only been outside the town walls twice as far as she remembered, and Vannes was her world. Was her father really acknowledging her? Could they really be going to his manor? Gwenn had only a vague notion of what a manor was like. Was it a large house? A very large house? Was it made of wood, like this one? Or stone?
‘The sooner we leave the better,’ Yolande said firmly. ‘I’m ready. Gwenn, I want you to help your Grandmother pack her things.’
Izabel did not have much in the way of personal possessions, none of them did; the packing would not take long. ‘What about all our pots and cooking things?’
‘Forget them,’ Sir Jean said. ‘There’s a cookhouse at Kermaria. And a cook. You won’t have to cook again. Though you’ll have to learn to keep the cook in order! I had planned for us all to leave shortly,’ he went on, ‘but as that young scoundrel Raymond is absent, your mother and I will go on ahead. You can follow later, and tell Raymond, when he appears.’ He reached out and enfolded Gwenn’s hands in his. ‘I’ll detail a couple of men to act as your escort. They’ll be here at midday. I want you to arrive in state.’ And in one piece, he added, mentally. ‘Do you think you can manage, my dear?’
‘Yes, of course. We’ll bring Katarin.’
Jean’s brown eyes twinkled. ‘Would you? That would be kind. Your mother and I have matters to discuss en route, and much as we love the little one,’ he bent and gave Katarin’s rounded cheek an affectionate pinch, ‘Yolande’s mind works best when not centered on the child.’
‘Raymond will be back soon, I’m sure,’ Izabel said agreeably, waving her daughter and Jean from the chamber. ‘You go on ahead.’
‘God speed, sir,’ Gwenn said. Though her father was apparently acknowledging her as his, she would continue to address him as ‘sir’ until such time as she was commanded otherwise.
When Yolande and Jean left the house, the pedlar was back on the patch that he had occupied the morning before. A mangy white cur sat a couple of paces away from him, tongue lolling.
Yolande walked vigorously. Much as she might regret being driven from Vannes like the town pariah, she was not sorry to be moving out of La Rue de la Monnaie. She was glad to be leaving the old life behind her. This would be a fresh start, the one she had longed for, and she would not look back.
The bright beacon of the sun warmed her head through her veil. Jean’s arm was under her hand, strong and firm. She had been right to trust him. Wasn’t he taking them to Kermaria, where they would be safe? Keeping her head firmly to the front, she fastened her eyes on the horses Jean’s squire, young Roger de Herion, was holding for them at the end of the street. Who knows, she thought, one day he might marry me. She did not mind about her unmarried state for herself, she and Jean were already bound together and no priest’s mumblings could strengthen that bond. It was the children she worried about. Of its own accord, her head turned. One last glance wouldn’t hurt.
Her eyes lit on the pedlar. The shiftless fellow was already deserting his place, kicking that poor dog out of his path. Yolande watched him shuffle towards the square, and guessed that he was heading for Duke’s Tavern. How could he hope to make any money when he didn’t have the sense to stick to his patch for more than five minutes at a stretch?
‘Taking a farewell look?’ Jean asked.