Thankful the jumble of hoof prints prevented him from seeing they had gone through the hedge, Gwenn did not stop to consider whether she could trust Alan le Bret. She turned and hared up the field. Another deep rumble rolled across the heavens. She struggled on, following a course parallel to the one le Bret had taken, on the other side of the hedge. The wind drove rain into her face so hard, raindrops felt like hailstones. A fence of crude willow hurdles blocked her path, Gwenn’s gaze skimmed its length. There was no opening. She must get through and find le Bret. The corner then, where hedge married fence. Oblivious of scratching briars, Gwenn forced her way through. Her feet skated on wet grass. A green mound rose before her and, feet slipping and sliding, she scrambled up it. She saw stone steps, a stone lintel, and a muddy entrance passage.
‘Sweet Mary, help me. Let it be the right one.’ And she tumbled into the Old Ones’ temple.
Chapter Ten
She found herself in a dank chamber that was a quiet and as cold as a grave. The lump in her throat was as big as a gull’s egg. ‘Alan...Alan le Bret? Are you there?’ Outside, the storm whirled, but inside, there was only a thick, black, ominous quiet. ‘Le Bret?’ She was alone. She bit her lip. She had picked the wrong dolmen and was caught like a rat in a trap. If the Viking had seen her, and followed her...
Perhaps there was another way out. Her eyes were adjusting to the gloom. There was only one source of light, and that was where she had entered. Feeling her way along wet, rocky walls for another exit, Gwenn skirted the dolmen. She had come full circle when a change in the atmosphere told her she was no longer the only person in this tomb of a place. A shadow fell over her, and something light brushed her arm.
‘Mistress?’
Alan le Bret’s voice. She closed her eyes and made a hasty sign of the cross. ‘Thank God, it’s only you.’
‘Only me?’ There was definite laughter in his voice. ‘Why did you follow me, Mistress Blanche? I thought you were minding the horses.’
‘I...I was afraid. Your friend–’
Steel fingers clamped round her arm. ‘My friend?’
‘Aye. One of your old cronies is following us,’ Gwenn said, trying to prise his hand off her arm.
‘Old crony?’ His tone was as hard as his hold on her flesh.
‘You’re hurting.’
The grip eased. ‘Old crony? Not Fletcher?’
‘No. Another one. I saw him at Duke’s Tavern, and again at the fire. He’s built like an ox, and blond – a Norseman’s looks. And the other day by Kermaria chapel–’
‘Hell! It has to be Malait.’
He released her, and she rubbed her arm. ‘I don’t know him by name,’ she said, throwing a worried glance at the yawning entrance.
‘What was he riding?’
‘What? Oh, a grey.’
‘Thin and bony? Long in the leg? Looks barely able to hold him up.’
‘That’s the one.’ The entrance was still clear.
‘Hell. De Roncier has such a horse, and for some reason Malait favours him.’ His voice was low and fuelled Gwenn’s fear. ‘Otto Malait is as hard as nails, mistress. A dangerous enemy.’
‘He’s not my enemy!’
‘You’d best pray you’re right.’ Striding over, he thrust a soggy bundle of rags at her. ‘Here, I tripped over this. Is this what you’re after?’
Gwenn accepted the bundle with a cautious lifting of her heart. Perhaps le Bret was not after the jewel...
‘Hurry.’ The wind and thunder were reaching a peak. ‘If it is Malait out there, we may not have much time.’
Unwrapping the sodden bundle, Gwenn felt the familiar shape of her grandmother’s statue rest chill in her hand. ‘This is it,’ she said, smiling. ‘We can go.’
Alan le Bret shook his head. He loomed over her, standing so close that his breath fanned her cheek. ‘Open it,’ he demanded, in clipped tones.
Her heart sank. Holding the statue tight to her breast, she retreated.
Le Bret took another step towards her. ‘Open it, girl, or, by God, you’ll regret it.’
‘You...devil! You...mercenary–’
‘Do it.’
She thought quickly. There was little to be gained from antagonising him over the sunstone. She gave what she hoped was a casual shrug and held it out to him. ‘You do it. It’s too stiff for me.’
He was startled that she should give it up so easily; the brief hesitation before he lifted the statue from her hands betrayed that. ‘How?’
Her mother had told her what to do. ‘Twist the statue in this direction,’ she mimed the movement, ‘and the wooden plinth in the other.’
He drew in a breath and pulled. There was a slight resistance and then the two sections came apart with a creak. A small object plummeted into the earth. Dropping both statue and cedar wood base, Alan fell to his knees, and groped – a beast in the mire.
‘Got it!’ he said, plucking impatiently at the strings of the leather pouch. The crystal rolled into his palm, hard and cold as steel. It captured the pale light and drew it into its heart, where it was muted before being thrown out again. It glowed dully, like flawed lake-ice on a sunny January day. ‘Got it!’
Gwenn gazed at the diamond-shaped stone on Alan le Bret’s palm. Yolande had warned her that the sunstone did not shine brightly like spring water, and that was indeed so. Le Bret, who would not meet her eyes, apparently had not noticed. But then the light was weak, and he had not known what to expect. He saw what he wanted to see.
‘Do you want to keep that, Alan le Bret?’
Strong, bitten, soldier’s fingers snapped over the stone, and the feeble glow was snuffed out. He climbed to his full height and turned his head towards her, but would only look at her shoulder.
‘If you want it,’ she continued softly, ‘I’ll give it to you.’
‘Give?’ The darkness shielded his expression.
‘I’m not prepared to die for a rock.’
The sudden stillness of his body told her she had shocked him. A hand came up and a finger feathered across her cheek. Gwenn drew back, and his hand fell. ‘I wouldn’t have killed you for the gem, little Blanche,’ he said reproachfully.
She caught his gaze. ‘I would like to believe that, Alan le Bret, but then I would have liked to believe that you were an honest man.’
He swung on his heel. ‘Don’t fix those big, brown eyes on me like that, curse you.’
‘Like what?’ she asked, sweetly.
He flung her a withering look. ‘You know, mistress. You may be a child, but you know very well. I’ve told you before, you’re wasting your time preaching to me. I’m a lost soul.’
Outside, the wind howled and whistled. There was thunder too, much muffled by the roof of heaped earth and stones. ‘I wonder if you are as much of a devil as you would like to think. Like it or not, you have a conscience.’
He waved a closed fist under her nose. ‘You forget, I have the stone.’
‘Aye, you have it. But what do you have? What is that stone’s true worth?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The stone is pretty, Alan le Bret, but it belongs to the past. Your friend out there,’ she jerked her head towards the mouth of the cave, ‘his ancestors would have valued it. Today, it’s worthless – a lump of crystal, no diamond.’
Alan stared into the girl’s large eyes, but they were as soft and open and honest as always. A hard hand clenched in his stomach, and he was horribly certain that Gwenn Herevi was telling the truth. Slowly he uncurled his fingers. ‘Worthless?’