At length, the Count broke the hush by tapping his fingers sharply on the edge of the table. ‘You interrupt our discussion to tell us you mislike this commission, Fletcher?’ The Frenchman shifted, his chair squealed a protest and the bloodshot eyes flickered at Alan. ‘One of yours, le Bret?’
Alan tossed back his blue-black fringe. ‘Aye, mon seigneur. I’ll have him disciplined. Fletcher, get back below. I’ll see to you later.’
Alan’s cousin opened his mouth to protest, but when the soft, cornflower blue eyes clashed with Alan’s, he had the sense to falter. Alan gave an almost imperceptible headshake, Ned’s mouth snapped shut, he turned on his heel, and to Alan’s relief he went to the door.
Captain Malait was taking no interest in the proceedings; indeed, he appeared to be sinking into sleep, blond head pillowed on his strong arms.
De Roncier teased the stopper from the wineskin and, disdaining the goblets, raised it to his lips. ‘Malait’s had a skinful,’ he observed, though all of them knew that the Norseman was no more out of commission than the Count himself was. Even when reeling drunk not a man in Malait’s troop would dare disobey him.
Otto Malait’s pale eyes opened. He stretched, and glanced towards the door. ‘Moralisers always send me to sleep.’
To Alan’s dismay his cousin was hovering on the threshold. Biting back a groan, he spoke coldly, ‘Fletcher?’
Ned started, and large, haunted eyes looked pleadingly across at him. Alan tightened his jaw, and kept his face expressionless. Devil take the young fool. Not for the first time, Alan regretted bringing Ned with him to Brittany. Ned should have stayed home on the farm in Richmond, he was not adapted to this life. If Ned was going to succeed in de Roncier’s company, he should try using his brains instead of diving into something he knew nothing about with woolly, half-formed objections. It was time he learned to accept realities. They were mercenaries now, not peasant farmers. ‘Get someone to bring up a jug of the local cider, will you, Fletcher?’ Alan spoke in English, with a steely edge to his voice. ‘I mislike this wine.’
‘Aye, sir.’
His cousin whisked out of the chamber.
François de Roncier leaned back in his chair and grinned at his captains. He was pleased they were in his employ. The Count had never known them to lose either their heads or control of the rabble below, even when they had downed a hogshead of wine apiece. They were as reliable as any routier ever was and, given that their world was one of ever-changing alliances and shifting allegiances, they had proved themselves loyal. Malait had been with him for three years, le Bret for two, and the Count was confident they would not cavil at the job in hand.
De Roncier considered his captains through a haze of drink fumes. As soldiers, he did not think there was much to choose between them; they were as different as chalk and cheese, yet they worked in harness well enough. He knew little that was personal about either man. All that mattered was that they should follow his orders.
The door gaped and Ned Fletcher marched in, a brimming pitcher in his hand. He set it carefully on the table. ‘Mon seigneur...’
The Count’s eyes kindled.
Reading determination on his cousin’s young face, Alan’s heart dropped to his boots. Oh, Jesu, not again. There was something, a hint only, in Ned’s eyes that reminded Alan of his brother William. He too had the suicidal tenacity of the idealist.
‘Fletcher,’ Alan invested his voice with menace, ‘get below.’ Ned was a reckless fool. The ones with a conscience were always the first to the wall. Had the boy learned nothing since leaving Richmond?
‘I...I’m sorry, Captain.’ Ned lifted his chin and continued with a baldness that made Alan close his eyes. ‘But I must have my say. I...I do not like the sound of this commission and I do not wish to take part in it.’
The Norseman emerged briefly from his pitcher. ‘Insubordinate,’ he muttered. ‘Begging to be flogged.’
De Roncier’s hazel eyes narrowed, became slits.
Alan held his breath. Ned had gall, he’d give him that, but God help him. Did he realise the enormity of his folly?
Ned stood his ground. ‘Mon seigneur, I’ve never used my sword against women and I don’t plan on starting.’
‘Use your sword against women? Who told you that?’
‘The...the men below.’
The Count lifted a tawny brow. ‘Le Bret, is this the trooper you’re kin to?’
‘Aye, mon seigneur.’
‘Did you betray my plans to him?’
‘No, mon seigneur.’
‘You disappoint me, Fletcher,’ de Roncier flicked his eyes wide, a trick Alan knew had disconcerted many a more seasoned man than Ned, ‘listening to idle gossip.’
‘I...I’m sorry, mon seigneur, if I misunderstood,’ Ned stammered doggedly on. ‘But I want it noted that I will not attack women.’
‘Christ on the Cross! We’re only going to frighten a couple of thieving whores named Yolande and...’ de Roncier frowned ‘...I forget the other name. Whores don’t count, surely? You pick a fine time to tell me you’ve got principles!’ Uttering the last word with blistering scorn, he turned his gaze on Alan. ‘Do you have scruples, le Bret? Is this a family failing?’
‘I’ve never been able to afford them, my lord.’ Ned’s fists, Alan noticed, were clenched white at his sides, so he must realise that the whipping post was the most likely reward for his dissent.
The Count linked his fingers, flexed them till the joints cracked, and took time to examine his fingernails. ‘Can you afford scruples, Fletcher? How much back pay do I owe you?’
‘Four months, mon seigneur.’ Alan’s cousin went red and white in quick succession as the implications of what de Roncier was saying went home. ‘No, mon seigneur! Whip me if you must, but you can’t withhold my money. I’ve earned it! I need it. My mother is ailing.’
Malait’s hand went to his chest. ‘Our hearts are breaking, Fletcher,’ he drawled, eyes as round as pennies. The Viking continued to stare at the young trooper, and a disturbing light flared in the pale eyes.
Ned stuttered. ‘M...mon seigneur, I...I beg you–’
‘I never withhold payment from those who serve me well.’ De Roncier smiled pleasantly. ‘And you will serve me well, won’t you, Fletcher?’
Ned’s sturdy, peasant’s jaw jutted. His lips parted. Alan concealed a sigh. His cousin was about to add insult to injury, and it was rather like seeing a child thrust its hand into a fire, hard to stand by and let it happen. Alan climbed to his feet, clicked his tongue in disgust and clapped Ned on the shoulder. ‘The way to get noticed is by proving yourself indispensable, not by threatening to withdraw your services. My lord has seen through your bluff.’
Ned choked, ‘B...b–’
Alan’s hand bit into his cousin’s neck. Ned subsided, scowling. ‘Let me advise you,’ Alan went on. ‘There are surer routes to promotion, and if that’s your aim, I’m willing to instruct you. I could use a good sergeant.’
‘B...but–’
‘Take heed of le Bret, lad,’ Captain Malait intervened, unexpectedly. Then, as though ashamed that he had broken out of his usual mould by speaking on another’s behalf, the Viking flushed and beat a hasty retreat behind the flagon of cider.
Alan blinked, he had not expected assistance from that quarter. He hoped it did not mean what he thought it meant. He shot his cousin a startled glance, but Ned’s innocence had in this instance kept him from noticing the Norseman’s interest. Ned was not even looking at Malait.
Just then, the cathedral bells began to peal and the chamber was flooded with sound. It was a welcome diversion. ‘The sermon’s about to start,’ Alan said.
De Roncier shot to his feet ‘Aye. No time for this now. Deal with your half-wit cousin later, le Bret. And keep an eye on him, will you? I want a report on his conduct. I’ll support no slackers in your troop. The men are ready? They know what to do?’