Raymond’s tone had sobered considerably, and Ned risked a grin. ‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on you, Master Raymond.’
Raymond struggled into an upright position and took stock of his surroundings. ‘We used to live near here, Ned.’ He stabbed finger at La Rue de la Monnaie. ‘Down there. I liked it better when we lived there.’
‘Did you, Master Raymond?’ Ned kept his face as blank as he could, and mounted. The urchin held out a dirty hand and grinned hopefully.
‘Master Raymond!’ Tristan was loping towards them.
Raymond slewed round in the saddle, clutching his pommel for balance.
‘Master Raymond, one of my customers found your purse.’
Raymond reached for it, swaying, and weighed his purse in his palm to make sure it wasn’t any lighter. He didn’t have much and he wanted to keep it.
Tristan hovered. ‘Excuse me, sir?’ Realising he would not get much sense out of Raymond, the potboy turned to Ned. ‘I...I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying inside, about the wet nurse.’
‘Go on,’ Ned said. ‘Have you someone in mind?’
Tristan seemed to pick his words. ‘Aye. I don’t know her personally, sir, but I’m told there’s a young maid been delivered of a stillborn child. Would...would you like to meet her?’
Ned leaned on his saddle horn. ‘Where does she live?’
‘Live?’ The question seemed to discompose Tristan, who lifted a vague hand and said, ‘Oh, nearby.’
‘She could be here soon?’
‘If I send someone to fetch her, she’ll be here in a flash.’
‘The work’s outside the town,’ Ned told him. ‘Won’t her husband object to her living in Kermaria for a few months?’
‘Husband?’ Tristan went red and shuffled big feet. ‘She doesn’t have a husband, sir. Does that matter?’
It did not matter as far as Ned was concerned, but he couldn’t vouch for St Clair’s reaction. Then he remembered that the knight had not always been married to Lady Yolande. He shot a sideways look at Raymond and said, ‘Matter? No of course not. As long the wench is healthy and her milk is good.’
Tristan hesitated, thinking of the money he’d been offered by the maid’s brother for getting the girl honest work. ‘I’m no expert, sir,’ Tristan said, the thought of the coins inspiring him, ‘but I should think that if the maid has not got her own babe to feed, her milk will be the richer.’
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Ned swung down from the saddle.
‘What’s up, Fletcher?’ Raymond asked.
Ned grinned. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to have that drink with you after all, Master Raymond.’
Raymond’s brain felt as though it was stuffed with clouds, but he rolled off his horse and showed his teeth. ‘Good. I’ll finish that bottle of wine I bespoke earlier.’
With a wry smile Ned flung the horses’ reins at the confused urchin. ‘You’ve to work for your coin today, my lad.’
In the tavern, Tristan was exchanging words with the man who, despite the warmth of the day, was drowned in that unseasonal wool cloak.
On the counter, a wasp wound a wavering path through a pool of spilled mead. Spotting the insect, Tristan took a grey rag from his belt and flicked it aside. The insect spiralled to the floor. Not two feet from where the wasp landed, tucked out of the way behind an upturned barrel, a pedlar’s tray sat on the beaten earth. It was half full of tawdry ribbons and sticky sweetmeats. The wasp, scenting a heaven of sweet delight, staggered like a toper, rose uncertainly into the air and landed amid the sweetmeats. Some ants had beaten the wasp to it, but the wasp was full of mead and not inclined to fight them off; there was enough on the tray to satisfy every wasp in his nest, and the ants too.
The fellow in the mantle, the owner of the tray, left the inn. The decrepit hound cocked a ragged grey ear, whined, and trailed faithfully after him. Having taken the unprecedented step of handing in a purse which rattled with coins, the pedlar had his sister to find; and that being done, he had information to sell. He had a buyer all lined up, for Conan the pedlar had no doubt that a certain French count would pay handsomely to learn what he had overheard in Mikael Brasher’s tavern. Add to that the likely reward for having taken the initiative in installing his sister at Kermaria...
Conan smirked, not only was his luck in that morning, but for once it was paying him to be honest. His handing back of that purse, though it had gone very much against the grain, had been a masterstroke, and he would yet see a profit from it. He had done a good day’s work without even trying.
Tristan put the broached bottle back on a tray with two goblets.
‘Ale for me, if you please,’ Ned said. ‘Wine’s too rich at this time of the day.’ He wanted a clear head when he met the wet nurse.
‘I’ve a strong stomach,’ Raymond declared.
‘Mmm.’ Ned was not going to dispute the obvious.
Grasping firm hold of the bottle, Raymond took refuge in mockery. ‘Ale,’ he sneered. ‘You’re only a beginner, aren’t you, Sergeant Fletcher?’
Suppressing a resigned sigh, Ned reached for his watery ale. He hoped the wench arrived before the level in that bottle sank much lower.
***
Outside his hunting lodge, Duke Geoffrey was examining the rough wolf pelt his huntsman had brought him. ‘A princely beast, eh, Gilbert?’ he said, running his hands over the soft fur.
‘Aye, Your Grace. Quite remarkable. I’ve not skinned a larger one, and he led us a merry dance.’
The Duke’s eyes lit up. ‘He did that. It was fine sport. Three days he eluded us, and–’ The Duke broke off, head cocked to one side. A horseman was approaching. ‘Who’s that?’ he demanded, ready to dive into his lodge. ‘I’m not expecting anyone, and I don’t want to be run to earth for a few days yet.’
The huntsman screwed up his eyes. ‘The horse is yours, Your Grace. Captain le Bret is returning.’
‘Already? It must have been a very brief reunion.’ The Duke emerged from the shadows, and directed a jibe at his captain. ‘Don’t tell me, le Bret, you lost your way and couldn’t find the monastery.’ Alan was the best scout Duke Geoffrey had and they both knew it.
Dismounting, Alan wound his reins round a nearby shrub. ‘My brother wasn’t there, Your Grace.’
‘I’ve heard it’s a harsh regime.’ The Duke hesitated. ‘He’s not...’
‘Dead?’ Alan smiled. ‘No, William’s not dead. Though I daresay he would be if he’d had to stay there much longer. I can see why Pierre Abelard took against the place all those years ago. No, my brother’s very much alive. Apparently the monks have unearthed a rare talent in him. William’s become an artist. He’s become renowned for his wall-paintings, and it seems his talent must be spread around. Another house has borrowed him – he’s repainting their chapel.’
‘So you missed him?’
Alan pulled a rueful face. ‘Aye. And by only a week. But it’s of no moment. I’d not seen him in years.’
‘Pity though. Do you know where he went?’
‘They sent him to an obscure cell tucked away in the forest west of Vannes. It’s dedicated to St Félix.’
‘You could visit your brother later, in a month or two. I can’t spare you just yet,’ Duke Geoffrey said. Losing interest in his captain’s affairs, he looked proudly at the animal skin spread out on the ground.
Taking the hint, Alan followed his Duke’s gaze. ‘You’ve had the head removed,’ he remarked.
‘Aye. I’m having that on the beam, remember? But I don’t need another pelt. Do you want it, le Bret?’
‘I’d be honoured, Your Grace.’
The Duke waved a generous hand. ‘I’ll have it tanned and stretched for you then, to compensate for your missing your brother.’
Alan bowed.
Chapter Seventeen
Mid-April 1186.
Johanna the wet nurse was a stranger to modesty, like most nursing mothers. She saw no reason to blush when she unlaced her gown, and she often fed baby Philippe in the bustle of the hall. Johanna liked feeding him there, for two reasons.