Unhooking one of the overhead lanterns, Tomaz placed it on the table. As he stared at the diamond-shaped crystal, his dark brows twitched.
‘Is it a diamond?’
‘A diamond?’ The goldsmith’s shoulders began to shake, and he dissolved into barely smothered laughter. ‘Fancy you bringing me one of these, and not knowing...’
Malait clenched his fist.
Holding the crystal between finger and thumb, the goldsmith prudently swallowed his amusement and held the stone to the light. He did not want to offend the hot-headed Norseman, or lose a good source of income. ‘See how cloudy it is? There are countless flaws. And look, here’s a chip.’
‘Aye. But what is its worth?’
‘It’s a sunstone. I could smash it with my heel.’
‘Its worth, Tomaz.’
‘Paol could answer that.’ Tomaz tossed the sunstone into the lap of a fisherman whose ancient back was bent as a bow, and whose skin was as brown and tough as the leather of Otto’s boots. ‘What value would you give this, Paol?’
Paol picked up the sunstone, glanced at it, and his mouth split in a gummy smile. ‘Wouldn’t give you an oyster for it.’
‘What!’ Otto shot to his feet.
‘It’s a sunstone, Malait,’ Tomaz said. ‘Your ancestors would have fought tooth and nail for one, for their ships.’
‘Ships?’ Otto repeated, dazedly. Bitter anger flared in his breast. Alan le Bret had taken him for a half-wit.
‘Aye. Might be useful out of sight of land. Round the coast? Worthless.’
‘Worthless?’ Here he was, thinking he’d never have to work again, and all the while Alan le Bret must have known the damned thing’s true value. Why else would he have relinquished it so tamely? One question remained. Had there been anything else in the statue, or had le Bret made a fool of him on that score too?
Tomaz smirked. ‘Imagine a Viking not knowing a sunstone when he sees one.’ Then, seeing the Norseman’s visage grow black as a smith’s, he curbed his mirth.
‘God rot you, le Bret,’ Otto spat through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll spill your guts.’ He focused on the goldsmith whose mouth was curving despite himself. ‘What are you laughing at, Tomaz?’
‘Nothing. Have another drink, my friend.’
‘Give me that thing, old man.’ Otto held out his hand. He would have to return to de Roncier; the sunstone was some sort of proof that there was no jewel. And by the Bones of Christ, Otto thought, it had better be the gem that the Countess had been hot for, and not the statue. If the Count’s mother coveted the statue, he’d be lucky if he was put to cleaning the castle midden.
Tomaz stared pointedly at the pitcher of Bordeaux. ‘What about the wine?’
‘You drink it, and I hope it chokes you,’ Otto said. He rose and stalked into the dark.
***
At that moment, Alan was travelling on horseback along La Rue Richemont in the company of Ned. It was a broad highway, wide enough for several knights to ride abreast, and it was easy to follow because the moonlight made rocks and road shimmer.
‘Where are you bound, Alan?’
‘East gate.’
‘Won’t it be secure at this hour?’
‘They’ll let me in.’
‘Oh.’ Ned looked puzzled. ‘Alan?’
‘Mmm?’
‘If you’re so set on getting a fortune, why didn’t you desert Mistress Gwenn and take off with her mare? You would have got yourself two horses that way. This way you get nothing, for I’m to take yours back to St Clair’s stables.’
Alan couldn’t answer Ned’s question. All he knew was that when he and the girl had arrived at the crossroads, he had found himself spurring on to the manor alongside her. And when they had got there, she had kept faith with him. She had not tattled about his attempt to steal the non-existent gemstone, or his kissing her. He shrugged. ‘By the Rood, I don’t know. It must have been a momentary lapse. You’ll not hold it against me, surely?’
Ned was accustomed to Alan’s warped humour, and he greeted this with a laugh. ‘No. But it made me think, that’s all. There might be some hope for you. Alan?’
‘Stop prattling, will you, Ned? You make my head ache. You’re worse than any maid.’
Smiling, Ned obliged.
Alan could see a pale flickering of lights in front of them. Below the lights there was a long, thin, winding darkness which he knew was the wooden wall encircling the port. After riding some way in silence, he said, ‘Our ways will part at the gate.’
‘Aye, so you mentioned before. Where will you go?’
‘I’ve a mind to seek out our noble Duke.’
‘What? Brittany himself? I understood he was in Rennes.’
‘You were misinformed,’ Alan said, his mind on the black and white of Duke Geoffrey’s ermine that he had seen that morning in Locmariaquer. He’d wasted enough of his life on the intrigues of petty lordlings. He wanted to move on to higher things.
‘Alan, why don’t you reconsider–?’
‘Don’t sing that old ballad, Ned,’ Alan said wearily, rubbing the thigh of his mended leg. ‘The melody sickens me.’
‘You’ll regret it.’
Alan laughed shortly. ‘I’ve fatter fish to fry.’
‘You’re a heartless dog,’ Ned murmured, without heat.
‘Not quite, else I’d have been long gone. Here.’ Alan came to a halt and swung himself out of the saddle. He tossed his mount’s reins at Ned and heaved his pack from the animal’s back. ‘You can lead this bag of bones back to the shack that St Clair calls his stable. I’ll walk the rest of the way. Fare you well, Ned. I should think you’ll do well with Sir Jean.’
Ned clutched his cousin’s reins and gulped down a constriction in his windpipe. ‘God speed, Alan. Will I see you again?’
‘I should think so,’ Alan answered carelessly. ‘I know where to find you.’
‘Yes.’
Alan shouldered his pack, sketched Ned a mocking bow, and turned his face towards the wooden palisade.
***
Marie de Roncier was breaking her fast in the hall of Huelgastel. Seated at the head of the table beside her son, she tipped the sunstone from one dry palm to the other as though it scorched her. A silver-topped cane lay within reach on the trestle.
Weeks earlier, when news had reached her of her sister’s death, the Dowager Countess had been overcome with guilt. If she had stayed her son’s impetuous hand, if she had not demanded the statue, her crazed sister Izabel would yet be alive. However, in the days that had followed, Marie had stopped chastising herself. Life was easier when she turned her back on her uneasy conscience. She flung the sunstone on the table with a crack. ‘My thanks, Malait, for bringing us this relic from the past, but I asked for the Virgin.’ Had Izabel died to protect a glass pebble? It looked as though her informants had been right, her sister’s wits must have gone at the end.
‘You see, Maman,’ the Count said. ‘The diamond only had form in old wives’ minds.’
‘You are insolent, François,’ Marie said, frostily.
‘No, Maman, practical.’ He smiled. ‘Honestly, accepting there was a jewel – which I doubt – is it likely they retained it all these years?’
Relieved to find the wind in this quarter, Otto took a pace towards the Dowager Countess. ‘If there had been anything of value, madame, I’m sure Alan le Bret would have known.’
Regally, Marie waved him out. ‘You may leave us.’
François booted the door shut after his captain. ‘Well, ma mère? You advocate that I do nothing, I expect?’
Marie did not want any more blood on her hands. ‘Do St Clair and his brood of bastards threaten you?’ she asked, investing her voice with as much scorn as she could.
‘Advise me.’
Marie’s dark face lighted. ‘With pleasure, François.’ Her Robert, God rest him, had often asked her advice, she liked being consulted by her menfolk. ‘Stay your hand and let matters rest. If you act, you acknowledge St Clair as a threat. And that would be tantamount to admitting you occupy shaky ground – it would be a tactical error. The man is weak, François; weak-minded, and weak in manpower. He’ll never be a real danger.’