Gwenn disappeared round a corner and Ned stepped back from the crenellations onto the parapet walkway. Conscientiously, he reminded himself of his duty. Perhaps another turn about the watchtower would serve to push her to the back of his mind. He had inspected the masonry on the roof last week, but he could do it again. Like that of the lower walls, the pointing was in good repair. Moss and leaves were regularly cleared from the gullies on the ramparts; nests were ruthlessly expelled from the guttering. The only birds permitted on the tower were Yolande’s fluttering doves, which she insisted would make a welcome addition to the household’s diet, though Ned could not recall dove ever being served.
The door of the guardhouse creaked open, and Denis the Red stuck his fiery head out. ‘St Clair wants a word with you.’ Denis jerked his thumb at the stairs. ‘Down in the hall.’
‘Oh? Any idea what it’s about?’
Denis’s freckled face did not show much interest. He hitched up the belt girdling his protruding belly and scrubbed his red crest of hair. ‘Beats me. Joel said St Clair told Captain Warr to pull himself together.’
‘Warr can be sloppy,’ Ned said. ‘He left the targets out last week, and they got rained on.’
‘Aye. Well, you know how the man can’t stomach the slightest criticism. He and St Clair exchanged pointed words, and the upshot is he’s leaving. Says he’s got a woman waiting for him in Vannes, but no one believes that one. I don’t think St Clair thinks much of him for leaving at such short notice. Perhaps he heard you mumbling about going and all. You did mention it at table last week.’
An image of Gwenn, laughing, filled Ned’s consciousness. ‘Aye,’ he said, rather quietly. ‘I remember.’
‘Best go and tell him.’
‘You’re to take my place on guard?’
‘Aye, worst luck.’
‘Don’t forget your helm,’ Ned reminded him. St Clair was a stickler for that.
‘I won’t.’ Denis shook his head grumpily. ‘It’s in the guard-house. I thought I’d escape sentry duty today, having done my stint yesterday, but I happened to be in the hall at the wrong time.’
‘Foraging for food, were you?’ Ned asked astutely and, grinning, he ran lightly down the four twists of stairs.
Sir Jean sat at the top of the board, feet stretched out before the fire. A roll of parchment curled on the table, next to an inkhorn and quill.
Though Ned could not read, he recognised the parchment as being the one he had put his mark on when swearing loyalty to St Clair. St Clair was flanked on the one hand by the lanky Captain Warr, and on the other by his firstborn, Raymond Herevi. Mistress Yolande and two of her women were also in the hall, spinning. Katarin, the baby of the family, who was now a sturdy five year old, had stolen one of the spindles and was playing with it. Behind him, the main door slammed. Without turning round he sensed that Gwenn had come back. She pushed past him, her skirts swishing and her arms full of newly carded fleece, and the smoky atmosphere of the hall was for an instant sweetened with the fragrance of rosemary. Ned stared stolidly at the scroll and struggled to keep the damnable colour from his face.
‘You called for me, sir?’ He saluted his master.
‘Aye.’ St Clair indicated Nicholas Warr – an indifferent archer whom the knight had been forced to promote to captain two years ago due to a lack of seasoned soldiers willing to work for the little he could offer. ‘Warr’s of a mind to leave, and I’d like to know your plans, Fletcher. Will you be following him?’
Ned could feel Gwenn’s gaze boring into his shoulder blades. Now that it came to it, he could not bear to go. It might be hell living near her, but without her... Besides, if he left, he’d never meet Waldin St Clair.
‘I...I’ve no plans to leave,’ he heard himself say. A soft sigh emanated from the direction of the fireplace.
Jean St Clair leaned forwards and rested his chin on his hand, watching Ned sombrely from under grey streaked brows. ‘Good. What say you, Fletcher, to a promotion?’
‘P...promotion, sir?’ Ned was temporarily tongue-tied, and he knew those wretched crimson flags were flying in his cheeks. He heard a throaty giggle.
St Clair tossed him a smile. ‘I regret Warr leaving us, but if you will accept the position of sergeant, that will ameloriate the loss. Who knows, one day you might step into his boots.’
Ned was so astounded, that he forgot his discomfiture.
‘And, Fletcher?’
‘Sir?’
‘I feel confident that you will not abuse this new position.’
Ned was trying to come to terms with his astonishing change of fortune. This was the answer to his prayers. ‘N...no, sir,’ he blurted, stammering like a dolt.
Sir Jean’s lean face warmed. ‘You show promise, my lad. You’re hard-working, diligent, I trust you–’ an audible chuckle from the fireside brought the jutting brows down, ‘-in almost every respect. Besides, I have the feeling you’ve been under-employed of late. You’ve had a restive look about you. What say you?’
Ned pulled his scattered wits together. ‘I’d be honoured, sir.’
‘Good man.’ St Clair jabbed a finger at the parchment. ‘Put your mark there. Warr and Raymond will witness it.’
Scarcely able credit this was truly happening, Ned picked up the goose quill. Gwenn drifted to her father’s elbow and every nerve in Ned’s body reacted to her nearness. It was the most exquisite agony. Was love always so painful? he wondered miserably.
Bright, brown eyes smiled boldly at Ned. ‘Well done, Ned,’ she said.
The knight glowered at Gwenn. ‘Back to the women, daughter,’ he said, tight-lipped, and he plucked his riding switch from the trestle. ‘And by St Patern, what do you think you are about, addressing him,’ he sounded as though he was talking about the dirt beneath his feet, ‘as Ned?’
Gwenn lowered her gaze, but Ned was not deceived by this apparent humility. Her pretty mouth was sullen. If St Clair noticed that look – and how could he fail to? – his wrath would be fearful. Would she never learn? St Clair doted on her, as he did all his children, but such looks never failed to wake a demon in him. The knight sucked in a breath.
‘Are you listening to me, girl?’
‘Aye, Papa.’
Sir Jean put his crop under Gwenn’s chin to force it up. Ned winced. ‘Have the courtesy to look at me when you’re talking to me, daughter. And wipe that defiant smile from your lips.’
‘Aye, Pa...sir. My apologies, sir.’
‘His name,’ Sir Jean jerked his head at Ned, ‘is Fletcher to you, or Sergeant. Do you hear?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Fletcher,’ Sir Jean repeated.
‘I’m not deaf.’
The knight’s moustache bristled.
Quickly, Gwenn gave a bob of a curtsy. ‘I’m sorry, Papa, but knowing N–’ swiftly she corrected herself, ‘Fletcher so well, I forgot.’
‘He’s a hired man,’ Sir Jean said, in clipped tones.
Grimly, Ned stared at the oak table and wished himself back in England.
‘A free man.’ Gwenn said this lightly, but with an edge that was not lost on her father.
‘He hires himself out for pay,’ her father said scathingly as though that were the most damning condemnation one man could level at another. And in his eyes, perhaps it was.
‘Raymond calls him Ned.’
‘Over-familiar of him, I’d say, but a different case entirely. And don’t ask me why, because you know very well. Raymond’s a man.’
Raymond smirked.
St Clair flexed his riding switch. ‘I’d use this on you, mademoiselle, if I thought it would do any good, but no doubt your hide is as tough as a donkey’s.’ And to Ned’s inexpressible relief he smiled and cast his whip onto the board. ‘Pick up that spindle, girl.’
Meekly, Gwenn turned on her heel, but her eyes flashed.