‘I always knew you were half-hearted in your loyalties.’
‘My liege?’
‘You’re holding out on me. You reserve your strongest member for your private use.’
‘I did but go for a walk and happened to pass this way.’
‘Walk!’ The Duke hooted. ‘I’ve heard it called many things, but walking’s not one of them.’
There was a stir in the royal tent, the flap opened, and a girl emerged. She ran off giggling. Her features were shrouded in her veil, but the men outside the tent got a clear sight of a blushing, boyish face and laughing eyes.
‘So help me, Church and Mass, that was the cook’s daughter, was it not?’ The Duke eyed his captain with malicious delight.
Alan shrugged. ‘I believe the wench is daughter to King Philip’s cook, aye.’
Geoffrey of Brittany gave a bellow of delighted laughter. ‘Snatched from under your nose by no less than a king, eh, le Bret?’
‘Kings can pay more than captains.’
‘So she’s a whore?’
‘Aren’t they all?’
Duke Geoffrey’s face grew sombre, while he thought of his neglected wife, the Duchess Constance. ‘I wouldn’t know, le Bret. It always seems to be too much trouble to find that out.’
Alan le Bret smiled. ‘Just so, my liege.’
The tent flap yawned and Philip of France’s dark, tousled head emerged. The King rubbed his eyes. ‘Good morrow, Brittany. You’re up with the larks.’
The Duke bowed. ‘My apologies, sire. But I’m leaving for Brittany–’
‘Short of funds again?’ the King probed. He was always probing, always trying to stir up conflict between his friend the Duke of Brittany and the Duke’s father, Henry of England, in the firm belief that it might give him the advantage in the ceaseless jostling for power that went on in Henry’s continental dominions.
‘Funds? No, sire. I thought I would pay my respects at my brother’s tomb in Rouen, and continue on into Brittany.’
The Young King Henry of England, Duke Geoffrey’s older brother, had died of dysentery in 1183, a few months after Alan had sighted him at Locmariaquer. Although the Young King had been crowned in his father’s lifetime, he had predeceased his father and never come into his inheritance. The Young King had been a king without a kingdom, and Alan was coming to see that wealth was relative. The Young King’s need for money had been a key factor in the rebellions he had mounted against his father.
Duke Geoffrey, Alan’s liege lord, was Henry Plantaganet’s third son, and never likely to wear the crown. His father favoured the youngest of his four sons, John, while his mother Eleanor favoured Richard. Alan had chosen the Duke of Brittany for his master over Henry for purely sentimental reasons; the Duke’s Duchess, Constance, had family connections in Richmond, Alan’s home in England.
The Duke continued, ‘My wife has an estate on the Morbihan gulf I’ve not yet visited.’
The rivalry which existed between the King of France and the Duke of Brittany, though friendly, was such that Duke Geoffrey would not dream of admitting any weakness, however insignificant, to the French King.
‘Refusing to pay their dues, are they?’ King Philip continued to probe.
‘Certainly not. But it’s time I showed my face.’
‘I understand.’ A calculating look entered the King’s eyes. ‘Pity you’ll miss the tournament though, Geoffrey.’
Geoffrey of Brittany bowed. ‘I am desolate, sire. But there will be other tournaments.’
‘There will be others. You’ll attend my Christmas court?’
Duke Geoffrey refused to be committed. ‘My thanks. I’ll certainly bear it in mind.’
The King waved the Duke away. ‘Go on with you. And may God watch over you.’
‘And you, sire.’
Philip of France ducked back into the blue silk pavilion.
‘Shall I see our tents packed away, Your Grace?’ Alan asked.
‘Do that. I’ve had my fill of pomp and ceremony.’
After two years in the Duke’s service, Alan knew what he meant. Every day, he thanked God he didn’t have the Duke’s responsibilities, but he nevertheless felt that if he had power he would spend less time feasting and jousting, and more time taking his duties seriously. Until he had joined the Duke, he had no idea that people in such high office could be so devil-may-care. But he did have a liking for his lord as a man. ‘We’re to travel light, Your Grace?’
‘Aye. Choose a handful of like-minded men to ride with us, le Bret, and the baggage can follow at its own pace. I’m not of a mind to trail along.’
***
It was the first of May, and Gwenn woke before dawn. She was excited. Lent being over, today was her parents’ wedding day.
Not wishing to disturb Katarin, she contained herself until the first grey strips of light crept over the broad windowsill. Then she eased herself out of bed, dressed swiftly, and grabbed her cloak from the peg on the door. She padded downstairs. Early as she was, she was not the first to rise, for in the hall the fire had been kicked into life. The men were stirring and mumbling in their blankets, preparing to rise.
Gently, she let herself out, pausing for a moment on the top step to draw in a lungful of fresh air. The sky was wearing its palest colours that morning, mostly blue, but strung out in the east were long, feathery clouds fringed with the gentlest pink. Wood-smoke drifted lazily out of the cookhouse and curled about the yard. She could smell bread baking. Pleased her parents should be granted such a beautiful day, Gwenn smiled and stretched.
Absorbed as she was in the quiet glory of the morning sky, she was slow to observe her Uncle, Waldin St Clair, and Ned Fletcher were in the yard. Sir Waldin was leaning against the trough by the whetstone, and Ned – disobediently, Gwenn persisted in calling her father’s sergeant Ned in her mind – was beside him. They had been shaving, and Ned was firing questions at Sir Waldin. Of late Ned had become Waldin’s second shadow, ceaselessly picking her uncle’s brains on matters military. It was becoming quite an obsession with him.
‘And you, sir?’ Ned was asking. ‘Which type of helm would you recommend?’
‘What, in a tourney? If it’s safety you’re after, I’d go for the closed pot, Fletcher. It’s more likely to stay in place, but it’s very restricting in terms of vision, and my personal preference is for one of the lighter ones.’
‘And the disadvantages?’
Ned wanted to know it all, but at that moment Gwenn’s uncle became aware of her presence.
‘Good morrow, niece!’
Blushing slightly, for Ned’s bright blue eyes transferred immediately to her, Gwenn flung her cloak about her shoulders and said cheerfully, ‘Good morrow, Sir Waldin. Sergeant Fletcher.’
‘Fine day for the wedding,’ the champion said, in a friendly manner.
‘It is indeed.’ Gwenn was curious about her uncle. He had not shown himself to be the greatest conversationalist, except with Ned, when it seemed he never stopped, but this had only fuelled her determination to find out more about him. At thirty two, Waldin St Clair was ten years younger than his brother, and in his looks he was far from the courtly champion of Gwenn’s romantic imaginings. She was not, she told herself firmly, disappointed, but he was not at all as she remembered him. Her father maintained an air of easy elegance, and Gwenn had assumed that his brother, the famous victor of many a joust, would have his share of that quality. This was not the case. The two brothers were quite unalike.
This morning, her uncle was scantly clad in linen chainse and breeches. He had rolled up his sleeves to reveal brawny arms thickly covered with dark hairs. The veins on his hands stood out like corded rope. His shirt hung open to the waist, and Gwenn averted her eyes from the mat of vigorous hair covering her uncle’s broad chest. Waldin’s neck was thick and sinewy. His eyes, like his brother’s, were brown; but his brows were blacker and thicker and quirked upwards. His nose was squat and, having been broken more than once, sat slightly askew. Most of his front teeth were chipped or cracked. No one, however partial, could call Waldin handsome, but as the champion had never had any pretensions to vanity, this had never concerned him. There did not appear to be any subtlety in either Waldin’s person or his manner.