At the trestle in the corner, Alan, Ned, and Conan the pedlar all breathed again. Ned Fletcher spoke for all of them. ‘I thought she’d be bound to see us.’
‘Gwenn,’ Alan muttered. ‘It’s very apt.’
‘What was that?’
Alan’s eyes focused on his young kinsman’s. ‘The girl’s name is Gwenn.’
‘So I heard. But I don’t–’
‘You ought to polish up your Breton, cousin, but I’ll translate for you. Gwenn means white. It’s the Breton equivalent of Blanche.’
‘White?’ Ned echoed. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Think about it. White. It also means fair.’
‘She is pretty,’ his cousin said, gazing through the door.
‘Is she?’ Alan picked up his tankard and swirled the dregs of his ale round the bottom. ‘White, symbol of purity and innocence. But the mud’s beginning to cling, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t worry about it, Ned.’ Alan tossed back the last of his ale and met his cousin’s cornflower gaze straight on. ‘Permit me to give you one last piece of advice.’
‘Aye?’
‘If you intend to stay in this business, it’s advisable not to get to know your enemies too well before you start a campaign. You can end up feeling sorry for them, and that only leads to disaster.’ Alan pushed back his stool.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Ned said agreeably. ‘Are you leaving at once?’
‘When I’ve collected what’s owed me.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘That, Ned, my lad, is no one’s business but my own.’
Ned hauled in a breath. ‘I know. But as you pointed out, I was only committed to serving Count de Roncier to this quarter day too, and I hate the man. I want to leave his service. I’d like to go with you.’ He flushed self-consciously.
‘You’re no longer a beardless boy that you need a mentor.’
‘But I’d like to go with you.’ One of Ned’s square hands ran through his flaxen hair. ‘Damn it, Alan. I like your company. Does our friendship mean nothing to you?’
Deliberately Alan turned his eyes from his cousin’s eloquent blue gaze. ‘I travel alone this time, Ned. Nothing personal, but I need to travel alone.’ He extended a hand, which his cousin blinked at. ‘Fare you well.’
Ned’s stool scraped back and the young trooper got stiffly to his feet. ‘I understand.’ He gave Alan a last, searching look. ‘I’ll accompany you upstairs. I still intend to quit, but I’ll make my own way after.’
‘Captain,’ the pedlar snatched at Alan’s leather gambeson, ‘I’ve not been paid.’
Peeling the grasping, wiry fingers from the hem of his jerkin, Alan groped in his pouch for a silver penny and dropped it on the pedlar’s palm. ‘Thanks for the information, Conan.’
‘You’ll commend me to Count de Roncier?’
‘I will.’ Mentally, Alan added the pedlar’s coin to his tally of what de Roncier owed him. He headed for the stairs, Ned hard on his heels.
Conan noticed the stray dog lying by his feet as faithfully as if he were his master. He threw it the heel of the loaf, which vanished in one hungry bite. Rising slowly, Conan the pedlar picked up his tray of goods and prepared to leave. He kicked the dog in passing.
Chapter Seven
Standing with the well between her and the entrance to La Rue de la Monnaie, Gwenn tried to calm herself. The two routiers who had been outside the cathedral yesterday were slumped over a trestle in Duke’s Tavern; and the Viking who had pushed past her with a torch had been sitting with them. They had to be de Roncier men. Gwenn was almost certain she had concealed her dismay from them, and that they had no inkling that she had recognised them; but her mind was a bubbling brew-tub of questions.
Why were they in the tavern? Were they planning more trouble? And what did that giant of a Norseman want with a torch in clear day? If only she could believe their presence that morning was an unlucky coincidence, and that they were merely quenching their thirst.
Conscious that her hands were trembling, Gwenn curled her fingers into her palms. She had believed her mother and grandmother had been exaggerating when they attributed the trouble to the French noble. All this talk of ancient grudges stemming from those long-distant days before her mother had even been born had seemed most unlikely, but now...
She tried to still the ferment inside her. She told herself that mercenaries were men of violence. What had been a stomach-churning nightmare to her, to them was more than likely only a mildly exciting romp through the streets. And de Roncier’s men had not trailed her home, the townsfolk had done that. And now, in the square, in broad daylight, with the citizens going placidly about their daily business, it was hard to believe that they meant her any lasting hurt. The mercenaries were only drinking in the tavern, as they did every morning, no doubt. It meant nothing. The cathedral was behind her. The sun was shining down La Rue de la Monnaie as it often did.
A brisk wind raised goosebumps on her arms, its gusts buffeting the martins, screeching and scissoring after insects in the sky above. A dark canopy of clouds hung over the thatched roofs in the western quarter. Gwenn drew her veil over her head. The martins would have to hurry, or the coming rainstorm would put paid to their meal. She hoped the rain would pass quickly, for her grandmother could not have ridden in a decade and it would make a penance of the journey to Kermaria.
Casting her glance past the well to her house at the far end of La Rue de la Monnaie, Gwenn pulled up sharply. A restless crowd had gathered outside. Her blood ran cold. St Gildas save us, she prayed. Don’t let this happen again. Yesterday had been a bad dream, but Jean St Clair had been there and his men had fended off the crowd. Today he had gone to Kermaria with her mother, and the promised escort had not yet arrived.
More citizens were joining the crowd milling about at the other end of the street. They were like ants when their nest is disturbed, running back and forth with distracted, disorderly movements. There were shouts of confusion. People started run, they were charging towards her. Gwenn’s heart shifted in her breast.
‘Sweet Jesus, no!’ She stumbled back a pace. ‘Not again. Sweet Jesus...’
Several townsfolk roared up to the well, blocking her way to the house. Poised for flight, Gwenn edged backwards. ‘Mother of God, help me.’
Outside her house, the crowd was growing. More desperate questions bubbled up. Was Raymond back or were Izabel and Katarin alone in there? Would the mob break in? What would they do to them? Her limbs locked and, like yesterday, she couldn’t run. Grandmama! Katarin! And then she realised that it did not matter that she could not move, for she could no more abandon her family than fly up with the martins. ‘No,’ she said, firmly, to brace herself.
One of the men at the well looked across at her. He was, to her astonishment, hauling on the well rope. It was Pierre, the herbalist. She waited for the onslaught that was sure to follow his sight of her.
‘Gwenn! It’s Gwenn!’ Pierre screeched, and irrationally he grinned at her. ‘She’s not in the house!’
Why was Pierre pulling up the well bucket? A new terror broke on the roiling surface of her mind. Surely they were not intending throwing her down the well? Of all the crimes that could be committed in a town, polluting the water supply was one of the most heinous. The laws protecting wells were upheld by people in every walk of life. Everyone from rich merchant to poor beggar, from Breton to Frenchman, from nun to cutpurse, all sang out with one voice against anyone low enough to contaminate a well. Gwenn conquered a violent compulsion to scream.