‘Pitiful. I think that I’ll stay,’ Alan replied, illogically.
‘Why this sudden change of heart? The odds are appalling, and I know you only take calculated risks.’
Alan grinned, and thought of the gem. What might it be worth? ‘Every now and then, Edward, my boy, I relish a challenge. Besides, St Clair’s brought a palatable wine with him. Did you not notice?’
Pleased, but none the wiser, Ned gave his invalid cousin a bemused smile. He was fond of Alan, and had always admired him, but he had never understood him. Despite his surname, Alan had been born in England, in Yorkshire. It was Alan’s father who was the true Breton born and bred. As well as being his kinsman, Alan was the only other person in Kermaria who could speak fluent English. Ned’s French was acceptable, and his Breton was improving daily, but it meant something to be able to converse with his cousin in his native tongue. The link between them may have become tenuous over the years, but Ned was pleased he’d not be stranded with foreigners.
‘How long do you think till you’ll be up and about?’
His cousin spread his hands. ‘Who knows? A month, if they feed us right and I heal quickly. Six weeks otherwise.’
The flaxen head nodded. ‘Lucky for the lass that we were heading up her street.’
‘Luck?’ Alan was examining his bitten nails and the suggestion of a smile flickered across his lips. It had been the thought of the mysterious statue and what it might contain that had prompted him to suggest they take that route. Only when they had reached the well and Alan had seen the smoke had he had realised that Otto had beaten him to it. ‘Luck? I wouldn’t call it luck exactly.’
Ned dragged his fair brows together. ‘What? Oh. I see what you mean. Not lucky for you with that leg. But you must agree, Alan, that destiny had a hand in today’s events.’ Intercepting a quizzical look, he added, ‘What else could it be but destiny when we’d finished our service with de Roncier? We needed employment, and now,’ a wave of his hand included the hall, ‘thanks to your bravery, we find ourselves neatly settled.’
‘Destiny had nothing to do with it,’ Alan said, shortly. He found his cousin’s irrepressible faith wearing at times.
‘God then.’
Alan rolled his grey eyes at the rafters. Not another. He had had his fill with the girl. One dose of an innocent in search of meaning was more than enough for one day. ‘Shut up, Ned,’ he said irritably, and settled himself down into his blankets. ‘I’m for sleeping. Shouldn’t you be on guard duty?’
***
Izabel Herevi had been laid to rest, and in the hall the funeral breakfast was over.
Seated at the board, Yolande Herevi turned lacklustre eyes on her lover and tried to be practical. ‘Jean, I’d like to see the undercroft cleared today. We need an inventory of the stores taken so we can send for supplies from Vannes. Gwenn knows what needs to be done, but she’ll need help.’
Jean nodded, realising that it would be good for all of them to work hard that day. It would take their minds off their grief. ‘She can have Raymond.’
Raymond was idly carving a piece of wheat bread into a ball. He groaned, and flung down his eating knife. ‘Cleaning? Me? But that’s women’s work.’
Jean’s brows snapped together. ‘You’ll do as you’re bidden, my boy. There are heavy barrels down there. You don’t expect your sister to move them on her own, do you?’
‘No, sir.’ Raymond picked up his knife, stuck it in his belt, and rose reluctantly.
‘You can take that new lad, Ned Fletcher. He’ll lend a hand.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Raymond beckoned Ned Fletcher over.
Yolande watched the young Saxon that Jean had sworn in the night before and wondered about him and his companion, Alan le Bret. This fair one looked as though he could be trusted. She watched him spring to her daughter’s side, ready and eager to lift the trapdoor for her. There was no deviousness in that young man’s nature, she was sure of that. She would raise no objections to his being part of Jean’s company. But she could not say the same of Alan le Bret in view of what Raymond had told her of his possible involvement with the mob.
Alan’s pallet was pulled up before the fire, and at the moment he was watching Gwenn as she held a taper to a candle lantern. Yolande did not feel competent to assess his character. She was grateful to him for saving her daughter, but there was something about him that made her uneasy. However, he could not do much harm in his present condition. He could stay while he mended, but she would watch him like a hawk, and at the first sign of trouble she would have Jean remove him.
The wick of the candle Gwenn was lighting was damp and it was a moment before it sputtered into life. Ned held out his square, blunt-fingered hand. ‘Let me take that, mistress,’ he said. ‘I’ll go first. You never know what might lurk below.’ He took the lantern and peered down the steps.
‘I expect there’ll be rats, Gwenn said matter-of-factly as Ned began descending, ‘but I’m not afraid of rats.’ Tucking up her skirts, she picked her way after him with care, for the steps were masked by shadows and coated with a slippery film of damp moss. Raymond dragged his heels.
Halfway into the shadowy depths Ned stopped and rolled large eyes at Gwenn. He lowered his voice as though he were afraid. ‘There might be worse than rats in here...’
Gwenn laughed, rather to her surprise. That morning, when they had buried her grandmother, she could not have imagined laughing in a hundred years. ‘Worse than rats?’ she said, and feigned fear.
‘There might be evil spirits from the past,’ Ned made his voice hollow and it echoed round the stone vaults, ‘waiting for a young maiden, ready to put her under some terrible enchantment.’
Gwenn let out a mock shriek.
‘But I’ll save you, mistress, never fear.’
Ned leapt lightly down the last of the steps and as he turned to see her safely down, Gwenn’s heart warmed to him.
Raymond joined them. He had brought another lantern and cast disparaging eyes around the undercroft. It was a cool, rectangular room, divided in two by a row of heavy round pillars. It had barrel vaulting. Along the walls, rows of storage jars were buried under tangles of cobwebs. A dusting of grit had fallen down from the ceiling. In the corners, where the lantern light could not reach, there was a scuffling sound. There really were rats down here, and mice. They would have to be ferreted out.
Raymond’s nose wrinkled in a lordly sneer. ‘Phew, it stinks! A fellow can hardly breathe.’
Gwenn found herself exchanging amused glances with Ned. ‘It’s been closed up for years, Raymond. What do you expect? Now the trapdoor’s open, it will soon freshen up.’
‘It might be an idea to have air vents made,’ Ned suggested, examining the storeroom walls. ‘I should think here,’ he shouldered a disintegrating casket aside, and indicated a spot near the top of the wall where the vaulting began, ‘and here.’
‘That sounds a very good idea, Ned,’ Gwenn said, smiling. ‘We can mention it to Sir Jean.’
Ned smiled back at her. Raymond, she noticed, was moodily tapping a wine barrel. ‘Empty,’ he pronounced in gloomy accents. He moved on to the next, and tapped that. ‘This is empty too.’
Gwenn and Ned grinned at each other, and Gwenn’s heart lightened. It would be good to have someone near her age to talk to apart from Raymond.
‘Where do we start, mistress?’ Ned asked.
‘More lanterns I think, and brooms. Then we must sort out–’
‘Hell,’ Raymond cut in, ‘there’s no wine here at all, save what Sir Jean brought with him.’
‘Isn’t there, Raymond?’ Gwenn said, sweetly. ‘Then hadn’t you better lift those empty caskets out of here for scalding and repair? They can be refilled then.’
Reluctant to take orders from his sister, Raymond moved slowly. Ned was there before him, a casket under either arm as he headed up the stairs. ‘I’ll fetch more light, mistress,’ he said cheerfully. Raymond would not be much help that day, Gwenn realised, but Ned Fletcher would, and willingly too. She liked him, very much.