She lifted it from his palm, and nodded. ‘It’s a sunstone.’
‘A sunstone?’ He let out an oath that burned Gwenn’s ears. ‘What the hell is a sunstone?’
‘A sunstone tells you where the sun is on a cloudy day. You hold it up to the clouds and when you have it pointed it at the spot where the sun is hiding, you can see a rainbow in it.’
‘Rainbow? Jesu! What children’s tale is this? What of the diamond?’ he demanded, roughly. ‘Is there a diamond?’
He had backed her into a place where the only road open was a liar’s one. Boldly, Gwenn stepped onto it, fighting to keep her features from betraying her. ‘There was, once. But you’ve seen my father’s manor. You have remarked on the poor quality of his horses. My father is not a rich man. The jewel was–’
‘Sold?’
She nodded, obscurely relieved that she had not had to speak the false words aloud.
‘Well, isn’t that lovely?’ he drawled with ponderous sarcasm. ‘We could have done with a sunstone to light our way this morning. Come, Mistress Blanche, let’s get out of this stinking tomb. I’ll take you home.’
‘You will? I...I thought you’d abandon me, lest I should betray your intentions.’
‘It had occurred to me. But I won’t escort you the whole way. As you may have guessed, I’m bound...elsewhere, but it’s no burden to take you to the crossroads just east of Kermaria. My road goes that way.’
‘My thanks,’ Gwenn murmured. Her assessment of him was not so wide of the mark. A man who had completely lost his soul would have tossed her in a ditch and run off with her father’s horses, worn-out nags though they were. ‘You don’t want to come back with me? My father did offer you work.’
‘No.’ He gave her one of his oblique smiles. ‘I’ve burnt my bridges as far as your family is concerned, mistress.’
‘If,’ she hesitated, ‘if you wanted to stay, I’d not say a word against you.’
For a heartbeat he stood stock-still, and then he bowed over her hand with perfect, heartrending gallantry. ‘My thanks, sweet Blanche, but I have other plans.’
‘You don’t trust me. You think I will betray you.’
‘No.’ His tone was curt. ‘I do trust you, mistress, and there are not many I could say that to. But I’ll not stay. Here,’ he stooped for the statue, ‘take your blasted rock and we can be on our way.’ Impatiently he rubbed his bad leg while Gwenn replaced the sunstone in its compartment. He led her to the entrance. ‘Up you go.’
A stream of water was pouring down the steps, making them slippery. Gwenn went a couple of paces and drew up, like a balky horse.
‘What now?’ Alan groaned. She was flattened against the entrance wall, shaking her head. Screwing his eyes against the cutting rain, Alan saw a domed metal helmet and broad shoulders shift against the tempestuous sky. ‘Malait!’ he exclaimed. ‘So it was you she saw!’
Otto gave his former colleague a shadow of a smile. ‘Grazing on your green pastures, le Bret?’ Water trickled down the point of a dagger in the Viking’s left hand. An axe as heavy as Thor’s hammer swung on a thong from his waist, his right hand rested casually on its ivory haft.
Alan’s sword hissed free of its sheath.
Gwenn screamed. ‘No!’ A jagged javelin of lightning flew across the sky. Above them, a cloud burst, sending false tears streaming down the Norseman’s face. ‘No!’ Gwenn’s second cry was lost as the wind worried the branches of a nearby oak.
Roughly, Alan pushed Gwenn behind him and heard her stumble back into the dolmen. ‘What do you want, Malait?’
Blocking the entrance with his brawn, Otto didn’t mince his words, ‘Where’s the statue?’
Alan laughed. ‘Show him, mistress.’
She moved slowly. ‘Here.’
The Norseman grabbed the carving. ‘De Roncier kept me in the dark. I was commanded to look for a holy statue. Enlighten me.’
‘Twist the base from the stone,’ Alan said. There was a splintering noise. ‘No need to break it.’
But he spoke too late. Tossing both statue and wooden shards aside, Otto weighed the sunstone in his hand. ‘Is this it? I’m keeping it.’ He tucked the stone into his pouch, concluding that it had to be what Marie de Roncier was panting for, not the holy icon. It must be worth a king’s ransom. Otto made slits of his eyes. ‘No objections, le Bret? It’s not like you to surrender easily. Is there more you’re hiding?’
Alan resisted the temptation to exchange glances with the girl. ‘More? I only wish there were,’ he said, hoping he sounded convincing. He lifted his shoulders and, keeping his eyes on his former comrade, sheathed his sword. Limping to where the statue lay embedded in the mud, he gouged it out and handed it to Gwenn. Her fingers were like icicles. ‘My leg’s too painful for a fight, Malait,’ he continued, candidly. ‘I’m not a fool to let you make dog meat of me. I’ll be content with escorting Mistress Gwenn home. Do we have your permission to leave?’
The Norseman glowered past thick brows at his former associate. He flattered himself that he knew Alan le Bret as well as any man, for they had diced away many a long evening together. Le Bret always wore that look when he was certain he was winning. But le Bret had relinquished the stone without so much as a murmur. Otto patted his pouch; he had the jewel the Countess craved. He had won this round. So why did he have a nagging suspicion that he was being played for an ass? ‘Come here, wench,’ he said.
Gwenn planted her feet firmly in the mud and stared a refusal.
‘Come here, I say.’ Otto took a threatening step towards her, but Alan barred his way.
‘Leave the maid alone, Malait.’
‘What ails you, le Bret? Turning into the white crusader?’
‘She’s only a child. Leave her alone.’
Malait rolled a contemptuous eye. ‘Becoming quite the nursemaid in your dotage aren’t you, le Bret? Where’s the pretty boy, Fletcher? Where’s your other charge?’
Alan’s jaw tightened. ‘Shut your filthy mouth.’
A blinding explosion of lightning bleached their faces. There came an almighty crack, an awesome tearing sound, and the ground quaked like Judgement Day. A scatter of pebbles tumbled down the entrance passage and came to rest in a puddle at the bottom. Rainwater trickled steadily in, filling the puddle.
Paddling to the entrance, Alan peered up the stairs. ‘An oak has fallen across the steps,’ he said. Gwenn Herevi waded after him and he felt an icy hand slip into his.
‘What are we going to do?’
He barely caught her low whisper, and threw her a sideways glance. ‘Afraid of the storm, Mistress Blanche?’
Her head was downbent. ‘My name is Gwenn. And no, storms don’t frighten me. But devils do.’
Alan let his fingers curl round hers; such tiny, delicate icicles. ‘Didn’t you say I was a devil?’ he murmured. Her head came up, and a shy smile caught him off-guard, warming his belly.
‘You know what they say, Alan le Bret. Better the devil you know...’ She flung an expressive look in the Viking’s direction.
‘You flatter me,’ Alan said with a snort of appreciative laughter. Keeping a wary eye on Otto, he loosed Gwenn’s hand while he twisted his injured leg safely out of the draught. It was bone-chilling. Gwenn wrapped her arms round her middle and kept close. ‘Decided you like me?’ he couldn’t resist enquiring.
‘Aye...I mean... No. Th...that is...’
Laughing, he reclaimed her hand. ‘You’re only a baby, aren’t you?’
Gwenn considered snatching her hand away, but her fear of Malait prevented her.
The cold and damp were playing havoc with Alan’s leg. Ignoring the Norseman who seemed to be lost in thought at the bottom of the steps, Alan dropped his cloak onto a relatively dry spot. ‘We’ll sit here and wait out the tempest.’ Pulling Gwenn down with him, he eased his leg.