Otto glowered half-heartedly at them, a seed of an idea germinating in his mind. He resented the fact that his lord had misled him by not mentioning the jewel. He fell to speculating how much it was worth. He knew a goldsmith in Vannes with a loose enough tongue if it was oiled with liberal quantities of wine...
‘I’m going,’ he said, though a weak thread of suspicion held him back. ‘Why is it that I feel as though you’ve stolen a march on me, le Bret?’
The grey eyes opened wide.
Malait placed a capacious boot on the bottom step. ‘I never forget a slight, le Bret. I’ll come looking for you if I find you’ve bested me.’ He threw Alan a look that would have frozen the blood of Lancelot himself and tramped up the steps into the teeth of the worsening storm. He grunted as he forced his bear-like bulk past the fallen tree, and then he was gone.
Gwenn sighed, and kept her hand tucked in Alan’s. He found no reason to disengage himself. The concubine’s daughter was only a child. No threat. After some time, the child lifted her head and spoke.
‘Did you learn what you wanted to learn?’
‘Eh?’ Alan had been in another world, a world where he never had to worry where the next coin was coming from. He had been dreaming.
‘The people whose tracks you followed.’
‘Oh.’ She had caught him unawares, she seemed to make a habit of that. Alan thought swiftly; he had indeed learned something, but he did not want to inform this chit of a girl. He had seen riders with their cloaks fastened down, and had known instantly that they were more intent on concealing the colours emblazoned on their surcoats, than of escaping the icy wind. The angels had sided with him – as he had taken cover behind a lichen-encrusted boulder, a helpful gust had lifted one of the riders’ cloaks high over his head. The flapping material caused a squire to lose control of his mount, the animal had reared, and in the ensuing tangle Alan was granted a clear sight of their colours. The unfortunate squire had a chastening whip slashed across his face for his sins.
‘Ermine,’ he had mused, ‘that’s Geoffrey, Duke of Brittany. And the Count of Toulouse – Toulouse, here?’ What had he stumbled upon? The high rank of the participants in this clandestine rendezvous warned of deadly secrets. There was a third lord in the group, whose coat of arms had remained covered. Surprisingly, given their high rank, the other noblemen seemed to be deferring to him. This lord wore heavy rings over richly embroidered gauntlets. His cloak was lined with priceless sables, and fastened securely with golden clasps. His face was muffled. Not a glimpse of a colour peeped out, but in all probability the man was too important to wear colours himself. Then a stray finger of wind lifted the mantle of the squire at the nobleman’s elbow. There was a brief flash of gold and crimson. On seeing the colours, Alan’s innards dissolved, and he jerked himself out of sight behind his rock. What he had seen was the royal lion of England. The other participant in this furtive meeting was none other than His Grace, Henry, the Young King of England – Duke Geoffrey’s older brother.
Gwenn shifted restlessly beside him, her face turned expectantly to his. ‘Who were those people?’
Alan hunted for a plausible lie. ‘It was nothing out of the way,’ he said. ‘The local nobility out hawking.’
She lost interest. Pushing back her hood, she tugged off her veil. ‘The wretched thing’s soaking.’ Against all the odds, her voice was sleepy. A diminutive hand came up to hide a yawn, and her dark head drooped against his shoulder. ‘Wake me when it’s time to go home.’ And, child that she was, a heartbeat later she was asleep.
Alan resigned himself to a long wait. After a spell he was forced to flex his leg, for it burned like fire. No doubt he would have cause to regret offering to escort the girl back. He winced. As far as he was concerned this past month had been one tedious chronicle of disaster. First he had broken his leg; but he’d managed to discount that, thinking of the profit he’d make when he took the jewel. Only today he had discovered that he had broken his leg in vain. He’d gained nothing from the whole business, not even so much as a clipped penny.
Gwenn stirred in her sleep. Her hair was glossy even in this feeble light. Her head hung at an awkward angle. Gently, Alan eased his hand free of hers, and draped his arm round her shoulders, turning her so that her face rested more comfortably against his chest. She gave a contented sigh. Such faith. Alan found himself wondering whether she would grow up to be pretty. He thought so.
Alan turned his mind to the royal brothers who had met in this place: Duke Geoffrey of Brittany and the Young King Henry of England. What were they planning? The Plantaganets were not noted for their unity. He had heard – who in Christendom had not heard? – how the Young King and Duke Geoffrey were constantly in rebellion against their father. In order to safeguard the succession, Henry of England had had his eldest son, who confusingly was also christened Henry, crowned during his lifetime. But the Royal House of England was a house divided, and the Young King was not a loyal son. Aided by his mother, the redoubtable Eleanor of Aquitaine, the Young King had stirred up rebellion after rebellion against his father. What was he up to now? Another quarrel over land? Now if Alan could only ally himself with men like those, that would be a challenge. Those men held the future in the palm of their hands; men like Jean St Clair did not. St Clair was poor; the royal brothers must have money, fresh-minted silver to buy new recruits. Alan wondered how he might approach them.
A strand of silky hair had twined round his fingers, and Alan realised he had been caressing Gwenn’s head. He snatched his hand away, and in so doing woke her.
Dark, trusting eyes met his. ‘Is it time to go, Alan le Bret?’
Alan looked at her. She smiled again. And before he could think about it, Alan had put his hand under her chin and brought her mouth round. He kissed her. Her lips were soft and trembled under his. Alan’s eyes closed, and slowly he deepened the kiss, taking her startled gasp into his mouth. He did not think she had been kissed properly before, for at first she resisted opening to him. A small hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he was absurdly pleased when she did not push him away. All at once she seemed to understand what he was about, and her mouth opened. Her innocence enchanted him – she was quite the sweetest thing he had ever kissed.
Before was utterly disarmed, Alan pulled himself free of her, and pushed himself upright. He had to clear his throat, and force himself not to look at those dark, trusting eyes, which by now would be full of bewilderment. ‘Aye, come on. It’s time to go.’
***
‘Have a drink, Tomaz.’ Otto indicated a brimming pitcher of wine, recently shipped in from Bordeaux. ‘I’ve something to show you.’
The goldsmith’s eyes gleamed as brightly as the lamps in the Ship Inn. ‘Bless you,’ he said and, giving a resounding belch in appreciation of the routier’s generosity, he poured the blood-red liquid into his leather tankard.
The Ship Inn was perched on the edge of the quayside in the fisherman’s quarter of Vannes, and in its rare, quiet moments, it was possible to hear the gentle lapping of the sea against the harbour wall and the creaking hawsers of vessels tied up for the night. Tonight’s quiet moment was far off though, for the night fishermen were busy filling their bellies with the various brews that they swore kept out the cold. It would be an hour before they were gone; an hour before the Ship Inn would fall silent enough for someone with sharp ears to hear either slapping waves or groaning ropes.
The goldsmith drank lustily. ‘Ah, that’s good.’ He scrubbed his mouth with his hairy hand. ‘Out with it, Malait. Have you more ill-gotten gains for sale? You must have taken to robbing the dead, you bring me more than anyone else.’
Accepting this tribute as no less than his due, a brief grin flashed across Otto’s lips. The two men often met, for Tomaz bought whatever Otto offered without asking questions, and they did a roaring trade in stolen goods. ‘Here,’ Otto dropped the stone into the goldsmith’s waiting palm. ‘What is it?’