Gwenn’s eyes filled. ‘Revenge won’t bring Grandmama back.’
Her brother strode over the rushes and gave her a rough hug. ‘Don’t cry. That snake’ll pay, I’ll make certain of that, if it’s the last thing I do.’
Her brother was offering her the only comfort he could, and Gwenn nodded. Folding a linen cloth, she added it to the basket of medicaments.
‘Why are you soiling your hands tending to that villain?’ Raymond demanded abruptly. ‘Let someone else do it. Let that wench, Klara, see to him.’
‘No. I want to help him. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead.’
‘I don’t trust him. He could be working for de Roncier.’
‘I don’t trust him either, but he did save me, and I confess I’m curious. That day we were chased, I saw him.’
‘What? In the mob?’
Gwenn nodded. ‘He was the first to throw a stone.’
‘Mother of God!’ A dark flush mottled Raymond’s cheeks. ‘And you want to bind his wounds as though he were some unsung hero! I’d steer well clear of him if I were you. That man’s a bucket of trouble. I shall mention that you saw him in the mob to Mama.’
Gwenn grimaced in the direction of the spiral stairs. ‘He couldn’t hurt a fly at the moment.’
Making an impatient sound, Raymond swung away. ‘And what about when he’s healed? What then? Believe me, sister, there lies a wolf that’s not to be tamed.’
She dug in her heels. ‘I don’t want to tame him, I only want to heal him. It’s a debt I owe him, for my life.’
Her brother flapped her out with a weary hand. ‘Oh, go and tend your wounded wolf, Gwenn. But don’t come crying if he bites.’
She picked up the basket. ‘I won’t.’
‘The sooner he’s better, the sooner we’ll be rid of him,’ he observed sourly.
Gwenn smiled back from the doorway. ‘There is that. Raymond?’
‘What now?’
‘Father Mark said the man has not been born who cannot be redeemed.’ Basket tucked securely under her arm, she stepped quietly into the stairway.
‘Christ on the Cross!’ Raymond exploded. ‘Women! Will they never learn?’
***
Alan was stretched out on a pallet close to the fire in the hall, thinking that a drink would ease the throbbing in his leg. Someone was walking down the stairs, and he glanced up to assess his chances of persuading whoever it was to see to his needs. It was the girl, Gwenn Herevi.
‘I’ve come to look at your leg,’ she announced, clutching a basket close to her breast.
That sounded hopeful. She had obviously decided to play at being an angel of mercy. Her eyes were wary, but brimming with good intent. At the moment nothing could suit Alan better. ‘I could murder a drink,’ he told her.
‘M...murder?’
He had forgotten how young she was. ‘I’m thirsty.’
‘I’ll find something.’ The concubine’s daughter set her basket on the edge of his pallet.
Alan put out a hand. ‘Wine would be good. It kills pain.’
Having poured a generous measure from a pottery bottle into an earthenware cup, St Clair’s daughter handed it to him. Alan noticed she was careful to avoid contact with his fingers. Ignoring this, he drank deep. It was a coarse red wine, flavoured with herbs. It warmed his stomach. Alan had never appreciated how much it meant to have a healthy, pain-free body until this moment. His pain dulled. She watched him. The girl, Gwenn, made him feel self-conscious, though he was dammed if he knew why this should be. ‘My thanks, Mistress Gwenn.’ He looked pointedly at the bottle.
The girl took the hint and thrust the bottle into his hands. ‘Here, you’d better have charge of this.’ Kneeling at his side, she unwrapped his makeshift bandages.
Pain knifed through him. ‘I hope to God you know what you’re doing.’
‘I do. Grandmama taught me.’ Her face clouded, but though her grief was fresh she did not give in to it. Head high, she waved at two yokels who were lurking in the doorway. ‘If you must watch, you can make yourselves useful. This man must be held down.’
‘I can hardly run away,’ Alan said dryly.
She flashed him a look. ‘Nonetheless, you must be restrained, or you’ll wreck the bone-setting.’
The two boys took hold.
‘Are you ready?’
Alan assented and gritted his teeth. Black pain swallowed him up, wrenched him out of the hall, and he was master of himself no more. He gave himself up to the agony and rode it out. After an eternity in a dark vortex with nothing to cling on to, the girl’s soft voice hooked him back. ‘There. You can relax now, Alan le Bret. It’s over.’
He came back slowly. He’d spilt the wine. He was sweating like a pig and he could hardly see for the perspiration running into his eyes. He could taste blood in his mouth. Lifting his fingers to his lips, he discovered he’d all but bitten them through. ‘My thanks,’ he managed to croak.
The two serfs had gone. His leg was neatly bandaged. He had new splints. ‘It doesn’t feel as though its mine.’
‘It will.’
Her eyes were steady. Candid, truthful eyes.
‘Will it set straight?’ An important question, that. Lame mercenaries didn’t have a prayer.
‘Like a lance,’ she assured him, dipping a cloth into a bowl of water. She began wiping his face as tenderly as though he were a babe.
‘Don’t do that.’ He tried to bat her hands away.
‘You’re all sooty, and you’re in no fit state to do it yourself.’
It unmanned Alan to have a maid like Gwenn Herevi washing him. ‘No amount of polishing will make me shine, mistress. I’m tarnished to the heart.’ Her steady, brown eyes flickered, but that was the only sign that she gave of having heard him, for the gentle, inexorable washing continued. Alan wanted to jerk his head away, but to his shame found that she was in the right, he hadn’t strength even for that. Fighting the pain had used up all of his reserves. The hall was rocking from side to side as though an enormous crowbar had been placed underneath it and a giant was levering it up and down. He endured in stoic silence while the room tilted.
‘You were very brave,’ the girl said, conversationally. ‘I should have screamed.’
Talking was the last thing Alan wanted to do, but he reminded himself that it might be useful to win the girl’s friendship. At Huelgastel, Alan had overheard de Roncier and the Dowager Countess discussing a statue and a gemstone; and in the fire, Izabel Herevi had babbled about Our Lady. She had said that she had given it to Gwenn. Was it the same statue? And what about the gem? Alan forced his bitten lips to smile. ‘I’m a soldier, I’m meant to be brave.’
The cloth was withdrawn. The large, brown eyes were thoughtful. ‘You’re a mercenary. I’ve never talked to a mercenary before.’
Alan sighed.
She stared at his purse which he had restrung about his neck. ‘And you make your daily bread by killing people.’
Alan fastened the neck of his tunic and watched her tip back on her heels. With a faint feeling of alarm he recognised the light dawning in her eyes as a missionary one. Useful though her friendship might be, he’d not stand for that.
‘How many people would you say you have killed?’
Transferring his gaze to the fire, Alan refused to answer, hoping she’d change her tactics, or grow bored as children do. She was very young.
‘How many people have you killed?’ She rinsed out the cloth, and started on his face again.
Alan smothered an oath. Gwenn Herevi was persistent in more ways than one. ‘I provide a service, little Blanche,’ he said, and having disconcerted her with the French version of her name, he succeeded in pushing her hand away. ‘I help people fight their battles.’
‘Blanche?’ she wrinkled her nose.
‘Your name.’ Pain made his response more curt than he had intended. ‘Gwenn is Breton for Blanche, is it not?’