Mellowed by his mead, the Viking looked delighted. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
Ned butted in. ‘Alan–’
‘Don’t fret yourself over your pay, Ned. I won’t leave until you’ve got yours.’
‘It’s not that, Alan, but...but...’ Ned stuttered to a halt, scarlet flags flying in his cheeks.
‘Your kinsman’s going to miss you, le Bret,’ Otto drawled, amused. ‘Never mind, I’ll be here to hold his hand.’
The flush deepened on Ned’s cheeks but the innuendo escaped him. ‘But why, Alan? Why leave? You told me yourself that the Count always pays in the end.’
‘I’ve stayed with de Roncier long enough.’ Alan lifted his shoulders. ‘Let’s just say I’m going in search of greener pastures.’
Ned jerked his flaxen head at the ceiling. ‘You don’t like him.’
Alan looked blank. ‘Like de Roncier? What’s liking got to do with it? You don’t have to like a man to work for him.’
‘Don’t you?’
Ned’s gaze could be very penetrating. Exasperated, Alan shook his head, but he held his peace. If his cousin wanted to think he was resigning for moral reasons, then who was he to disabuse him? Wearily, he reached for his ale, and as he did so, he became aware that a hush had fallen over the thin company. Looking up, he was shocked to see the concubine’s daughter brazenly threading her way through the tables. She was swathed in another of those filmy veils which were more fitted to a Saracen’s harem than a tavern in Vannes. This one was sea-green.
The pedlar had seen the girl too, and he was choking on his drink. ‘Look, Captain!’
Alan shrank back to conceal himself, partly behind Otto Malait’s substantial bulk, and partly behind a wooden beam. ‘I’ve seen her,’ he muttered. ‘No. Don’t turn round, Malait. The concubine’s daughter has just flown in.’
‘What? Here?’ Malait turned and looked her up and down.
‘Christ, Malait,’ Alan groaned.
‘Simmer down, Captain, the wench doesn’t know me from Adam. It was you set the mob on her.’ Otto’s straw-like beard concealed a malicious grin. The Viking knew he was speaking too loudly for Alan’s peace of mind, but he enjoyed needling him. He took everything so seriously, did Captain le Bret. Above the straw the pale eyes narrowed. ‘I wonder if she’s left the old witch on her own?’
Alan deemed it wiser not to respond. With the inn being all but empty, there was a real danger she might recognise them. Ned had turned his face away, half covering it by resting a cheek on a hand. Duke’s Tavern was the last place Alan had expected to see St Clair’s bastard after yesterday. He strained his ears to hear what she was saying.
‘Is Irene about?’ She addressed the yawning potboy. He was clearing a nearby trestle of wine slops and crumbs with a filthy, discoloured cloth that Alan’s mother would have burnt a year ago.
‘Eh?’ Tristan flicked a piece of gristle into the rushes. A furry white streak flashed across the floor. A dog’s jaws snapped. Amiably, Tristan kicked the animal towards the routiers and continued his ineffectual wiping.
‘Irene, is she about?’
Heaving himself to his feet, Otto Malait adjusted his sword belt and lifted one of the fresh, unlit torches down from its wall stand. ‘I’m off,’ he said. If the girl was in the inn, the old woman had to be alone, for the pedlar had informed them the boy was elsewhere. This was a God-given opportunity to get de Roncier’s statue. A weak old woman wouldn’t be able to offer much resistance.
‘Malait,’ Alan glared, ‘what the hell are you playing at?’
‘I’m going to stretch my legs, le Bret,’ Otto answered, belligerently waving the torch. ‘Any objections?’
‘Keep your voice down. I don’t object. In fact it would be a relief if you did leave. Strategy never was one of your strong points. Fletcher and I, you may not have noticed, are keeping our heads down. What the hell are you doing with that torch, Malait?’
‘I’ve a use for it,’ came the cryptic reply.
‘And your pay?’
‘I’ll collect that later.’ Otto’s gaze rested briefly on Ned Fletcher, as he realised, with regret, it was most likely the lad would accompany his cousin. ‘We’ll meet again?’
‘Perhaps.’
Swinging stiffly back to the table, Otto shoved a scarred fist under Alan’s nose. ‘In case I don’t see you, I wish you good luck. I hope you find your Valhalla.’
‘My thanks.’ Solemnly the two mercenaries shook hands.
‘I trust we’ll never find ourselves fighting on opposite sides in anyone’s war, le Bret.’
‘Amen to that, Malait. I’d have to kill you.’
‘Not a hope this side of the Underworld.’ Otto’s mouth split in a gaping grin. ‘You’d be mincemeat before you knew what hit you. Au revoir, le Bret.’
Meanwhile the concubine’s daughter was persisting with her quest. ‘I...I’d like to see Irene.’ Her eyes darted nervously to the Viking as he shouldered past her and left the inn.
‘Irene’s not here,’ Tristan said.
The concubine’s daughter placed herself in the potboy’s path, and when he went to move to the next trestle, she was there, waiting for him. Her fingers were crumpling the edges of her veil. There was something different about her, and it puzzled Alan. Yesterday, when he had seen her for the first time, her face had been full of confusion and not a little fear, but he had sensed hidden reserves in her. She had at first refused to accept what was happening to her – she’d not begun to flee until his missile had actually struck her. Alan had put that down to natural arrogance. But watching her now, he realised his assessment had been inaccurate.
Today, though the girl was insistent that Tristan take notice of her, her confidence had gone, and with it that touch of pride. She had lost that blind faith in human nature that only the truly innocent possess. Well, that would do her no harm, the sooner she learned the harsh realities of life, the better. However, it was surprising to discover that a concubine’s daughter could have been so innocent. Alan rubbed his chin. She must have been fenced off from hurt, and blind prejudice, and hate – until yesterday, when all those things had come hurtling towards her in the shape of the good citizens of Vannes.
The girl must be wondering whether she was safe in Mikael Brasher’s tavern. She was wondering whether the people sitting at the tables were the same people who had chased her yesterday. Her eyes travelled inevitably to their table, and hastily Alan ducked his head.
‘Not gone yet?’ Tristan asked, with lazy insolence.
‘As you see.’ The girl’s cheeks were white as snow. She gave the lad a shaky smile. ‘Would you give Irene a message for me?’ Fine-boned hands were clasped in front of her small breasts. ‘Please?’
‘Very well.’ Grudgingly, the potboy put his hands on his hips. ‘What’s your message?’
‘I...I want you to say au revoir to Irene for me.’
‘Au revoir? You’re coming back?’
‘N...no. No. I...I mean adieu.’ Her pale cheeks coloured, and pitilessly Alan suppressed a pang of fellow-feeling. The boy drummed his fingers on the trestle. ‘Say farewell, and please give Irene this.’ She held out a narrow strip of parchment.
Tristan looked at it with the wary eyes of a man to whom reading was a deep mystery. ‘What is it?’ he demanded, suspiciously.
‘It’s only my direction. If Irene needs a friend, tell her she can find Gwenn there.’
Gwenn, thought Alan. Her name was Gwenn. And she could read and write. He shook his head in amazement. Her mother must be quite mad. What use was that to a girl?
Tristan stared at the creamy ribbon of vellum. ‘Irene can’t read,’ he said.
The girl looked nonplussed. ‘No. How stupid of me. I suppose not. Of course she can’t.’
Tristan appeared to relent. ‘She could ask Father Mark to make it out.’
The girl’s face cleared and she thrust the scrap of parchment at Tristan who, with uncommon fastidiousness, wiped thumb and forefinger on his breeches before touching it. ‘Many thanks. Farewell.’ She scuttled into the street, and the potboy tucked the parchment into his sleeve.