‘How are they made, sir?’
‘In simple terms, the sword smith beats out the steel over and over, before folding it back on itself. Then he starts the process all over. It’s a very skilled and lengthy business.’
‘Expensive, I should think,’ Ned said.
‘It is that.’ Waldin grinned. ‘Only princes and dukes can afford them.’
‘Could the heavier swords be made to take a similar edge?’
Here, Fletcher,’ Raymond plucked peevishly at Ned’s tunic, ‘you’re supposed to be talking to me.’
The excitement vanished from Ned’s face as swiftly as though someone had snuffed a candle out. ‘My apologies, Master Raymond.’
‘Pour me more wine.’
Lifting the flagon, Ned looked across it at Waldin. ‘I’ll hold you to your promise, sir,’ he said, earnestly. ‘I’ll keep my nose to the grindstone in order to be your squire.’
‘You ought to try and forget the tournaments, Waldin,’ Jean said. ‘You were courting disaster to go on as long as you did, and at your ripe old age you’d be begging for it.’
‘It’s a form of madness, I cannot deny that,’ Waldin agreed. ‘But there’s glory in it.’
Jean looked tenderly at the sleeping child in his arms. ‘I’ve never understood your fascination with glory, Waldin. When it comes down to it, you end up spilling a gallon of blood, and it seems to me it’s largely a matter of chance whether it’s your blood or someone else’s.’
‘I understand,’ Ned put in.
‘Heaven help us,’ Jean said, in a resigned voice. ‘Your prating about glory is unsettling my men, Waldin.’ He glanced warmly at Ned. ‘I want to keep my sergeant. I don’t want to lose him to the jousts.’
‘Oh, I’d come back, sir, but it’s good to dream.’
Raymond felt it was time he stuck his oars in. ‘Dream!’ He snorted. ‘All you ever do is dream.’ Predictably, Ned flushed. Raymond turned his fire on his uncle. ‘And as for wasting yourself for glory’s sake, Uncle, I agree with my father. You’re mad. I would only risk myself for something...tangible.’
Waldin’s brown eyes narrowed. ‘Like an inheritance, perhaps?’ he suggested softly. He was hoping his nephew was merely stirring the pot to see what was in it.
Raymond took his time answering. ‘Aye. I’d say an inheritance was worth fighting for. Father, do you not agree?’ But his father’s attention was fixed on the sounds filtering down the solar stairs. ‘Father?’
‘What’s that you said, Raymond?’
‘I was telling my uncle that I wouldn’t risk my neck for glory alone.’
‘No.’ Jean’s eyes were glued to the rafters. He stroked his daughter’s hair. ‘I’ve always needed something to fight for myself.’
Lurching for the wine, Raymond forged on, making what he thought was a winning point. ‘Being the eldest son, Papa, you had something to fight for. Whereas Waldin, being the poor, younger son, had to make do with glory.’
‘I’ve been content, lad,’ Waldin put in, quickly.
‘You might have been. I–’
A muffled shriek leeched the colour from Jean’s cheeks. ‘Sweet Jesus, does she have to suffer so?’
‘Here, Jean, have a drink,’ Waldin suggested. ‘It will help you forget–’
‘Forget? God’s Teeth, Waldin! How the bloody hell do you think I can forget that she is suffering?’
‘It will help you relax.’ Firmly, Waldin pressed an earthenware cup into his brother’s hand. ‘Take it. You look like a death’s-head.’
Jean caught Ned’s sympathetic glance on him and knew he must set an example. An excess of sympathy never made for efficient fighting men, and Ned Fletcher was not the only one of his troop in the hall. Denis the Red and some others had drifted in for their evening meal. The mistress of the household might be fighting for her life, but the evening meals must still be served. Now why had he picked on that unfortunate phrase? God grant that Yolande was not fighting for her life...
Jean cleared his throat. ‘Sergeant Fletcher?’ He was pleased how curt his voice came out.
Ned sat up. ‘Sir?’
‘Do you recall when the armourer said that he’d have the links mended on my spare coat of mail?’
‘Aye, sir. He promised it for the first of the month.’
‘So you could collect it on the morrow?’
‘If you wish, sir.’
‘Leave at first light, will you, Sergeant? That way you should be there and back by sunset.’
‘Very well, sir.’
An agonised groan floated into the hall and though it was muted and cut off sharply, it succeeded in killing conversation. Jean clenched his fingers round his wine cup and stared blankly at the trencher someone had set before him. Desperately he tried to order his thoughts. If it was a boy, he must put his house in order. He didn’t trust de Roncier to let well alone if it was a boy. If the infant was a girl...
Another muffled shriek had him burying his face in his daughter’s soft hair. He felt a tentative touch on his shoulder and looked up. The turnspit was standing beside him, a question in his eyes. ‘Roast beef, sir?’
A platter of beef swimming in red juices was waved under his nose. Jean’s gorge rose and he waved the meat away. ‘Not for me. I’ve no appetite this evening.’ He lifted resigned eyes to his brother. ‘It would appear that it is going to be long night, Waldin.’
Waldin dipped his head in acknowledgement. What they needed was something to speed the passage of time. ‘Mulled wine might help.’
Jean knew it wouldn’t, but he dragged on the best smile he had. ‘My thanks, Waldin.’
Chapter Sixteen
Duke Geoffrey of Brittany had a hunting lodge at Suscinio on the remote Rhuys peninsular. This long arm of land curved around the Small Sea, or Morbihan Gulf, and held back the worst of the weather from the larger ocean – the Morbraz. Miles from the town of Vannes, the land was wild and windswept – even the trees had been bent out of shape. The Duke’s lodge was an unpretentious wattle and daub building with a beaten earth floor, mean as any villein’s hovel. No lady would set foot in the place, which was one of the reasons Duke Geoffrey chose it for his bolt-hole. There were times when he felt the need to escape the restrictions his responsibilities imposed on him, and his lodge at least provided adequate protection from the elements.
That August night, while Yolande St Clair laboured to give birth to her fourth child, Alan le Bret lay on his cloak at his Duke’s side at Suscinio, listening to the wind whistling through the thatch. ‘Makes you shiver to listen to it,’ he said, hands linked behind his head, ‘and everywhere else your people are sweating the fat off their ribs in the heat.’
‘Aye,’ Duke Geoffrey answered, lazily paring his nails with his dagger. ‘It’s always cool here. I hope you don’t resent me dragging you from Rennes, le Bret. Did you have a sweetheart there?’
‘No sweetheart,’ Alan said. ‘And I’m glad you brought me, Your Grace, because I’ve a brother at a monastery on this peninsular, very close by, and a visit’s long overdue.’
‘I didn’t know you had a brother, le Bret, let alone one in holy orders.’
‘He’s a novice and his name is William.’
‘You want leave to see him?’
‘Please. He’s at the monastery of St Gildas and–’
The Duke cut him off with a gracious wave of his hand and reached for the lantern. ‘Granted. But not on the morrow, le Bret. My forester tells me there’s a wolf on the prowl, and I’ve a mind to nail its head on that beam. We’ll be up before dawn and in the saddle all day.’ The Duke stuck his dagger into the beaten earth floor, and closed the lantern, throwing them into inky darkness. His languid voice floated gently through the murk, ‘You may visit your brother the next day, le Bret.’
‘My thanks, Your Grace.’
***
The following morning, in the grey hour before sunrise, the Kermaria cockerel stirred, blinked once, twice, gave his head a comb-waggling shake and tipped his head sideways to listen to the warm, sighing exhalations of the sleeping horses. His black eyes winked up at the sky. It was cloudless as it had been these several months past, and the light would be faint for another half hour. It was not quite time for him to crow, not quite time for him to wake the world and announce that morning had come.