‘That had occurred to me.’ The Duke dismounted, eyes fixed on the warhorse.
Alan decided that now would be a good a time as any to put in his request for leave. ‘Your Grace?’
‘Mmm?’ The Duke dropped Firebrand’s reins and moved forwards.
Jumping down to the quayside, Alan stooped for the abandoned courser’s reins. ‘About my leave–’
‘Not now, le Bret.’ Duke Geoffrey put his hand to the coal-black withers which rippled under his touch. The stallion stood firm and blew out through his nose.
‘Your Grace, at Suscinio last August you said I could take my leave in a month or two. It’s April now.’
The Duke sent him a preoccupied look, and turned back to his stallion. ‘Is he ready, Brian?’
‘As ready as he’ll ever be, Your Grace,’ the Master of the Horse said.
‘Fetch his saddle.’
Brian looked concerned. ‘But Your Grace...in town?’
‘In town,’ the Duke confirmed.
Alan patted Firebrand’s silken neck. ‘We’re forgotten, my friend,’ he said. Firebrand’s ears twitched. Alan raised his voice, ‘Your Grace?’
The Duke frowned. ‘Christ’s wounds, le Bret, I thought you’d gone back to your troop.’ Brian was returning with the saddle. Grabbing it, the Duke threw it over the warhorse’s broad back himself. ‘Go on then, le Bret. Where did you say you wanted to go?’
‘St Félix-in-the-Wood.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘It’s near Kermaria, Your Grace.’
The Duke straightened. ‘Kermaria. That name’s familiar. Who holds it, do you know?’
‘Sir Jean St Clair.’
The Duke rubbed his chin. ‘A tenant of mine, a small one, but nevertheless.... Has he sworn fealty?’
‘Not to my knowledge, Your Grace.’
The Duke grunted. ‘You may have a week’s leave, le Bret, on condition that you visit Kermaria on my behalf. I want a full report on this Sir Jean, and the state of his manor, number of serfs, freemen, soldiers, and so on. The place was derelict, but that may have changed. It may actually be useful these days. Sort it out with your men, and ask my chaplain to see you get a letter of introduction to take with you. I’m to meet with Duchess Constance, and if I’m gone when you return, go to Rennes. I’ll need you there.’
‘My thanks,’ Alan said. He was well content to have a legitimate excuse to visit his cousin. He had often wondered how Ned was faring. A lot could have happened to young Ned in the two years since Alan had seen him. And apparently St Félix’s cell was a stone’s throw from Kermaria. Alan was owed rather more than a week’s leave, but at this moment a week was all he wanted. He gestured to the chestnut courser whose reins he still held. ‘Shall I have Firebrand stabled, Your Grace?’
The Duke tightened his warhorse’s girth. ‘No, you can take him, le Bret. I know you enjoy riding him. Brian here can take your mount.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Alan tossed his own mount’s reins to the Master of the Horse, switched his gear to Firebrand and mounted him swiftly, lest the Duke changed his mind. He nudged the shining chestnut flanks with his heels and trotted briskly towards his men.
***
The larks that were carolling over the fields to the east could be heard clear over Kermaria marsh. But the larks were the first creatures to waken and as their song was the only sign of life, it went largely unheard. Dawn was an hour away. The whispering sedge and rushes, which a sharp frost had coated with a delicate film of ice, stood dumb, unmoved by wind or wildfowl. The coots and moorhens, snug in nests in the reeds, slept on. The stillness was absolute. It radiated from the marsh – a web of silence spun so large it cloaked not only mere and reeds but also the bridge, the peasants’ cots, the stables, and all of St Clair’s tower right up to the sentry who sat behind a merlon with his red head nodding over his spear. Everything was snared, gently, but firmly, in that web.
The disturbance was small at first. Hardly more than a shiver in the chill, dusky air, an imperceptible ripple of movement which shook the strands of the web and then faded. The silence seemed to grow heavier. Then the movement came again, only this time it was stronger. There was an insignificant sucking noise, as though someone had been marching through the marsh and had inadvertently put their foot into a boggy patch, and was pulling it free.
‘Hell!’ A harsh whisper rattled the reeds. A lantern flap opened a crack, and as a yellow wedge of light streamed forth, it lit up a fenland bristling with men who stood taller than the fresh willow shoots pushing their way to the sky. The men’s spears were more pointed than the frost-tipped reeds, and in the light of the lantern they flashed more brightly.
The big man holding the lantern clenched his fist and controlled an urge to strike the fool who had broken the silence. ‘Quiet, dog,’ Otto Malait mouthed.
‘Damn sedge,’ the trooper muttered, licking blood from his palm. He displayed a vivid slash running across his hand. ‘Edge is sharper than my sword.’
Otto’s hand rose as he delivered a swingeing clout to the fellow’s ears. ‘Be silent,’ he hissed. Flicking the lantern cover, he extinguished the light.
A sedge warbler gave a warning cry as Otto pushed forwards. The web of silence trembled. A moorhen shot out from under his boots, echoing the warbler’s note of alarm. Resigned that the silence was lost, Otto ploughed on. He had his orders. His men must cover as much ground as possible if they were going to be in position before the sun melted the frost on the reeds.
Count de Roncier planned to lead his attack from the north, while Otto had been commanded to direct his men via the marsh to the village. From there they were to force their way into the courtyard. Otto wondered if de Roncier was in position. If this raid was to be effective, they must strike before first light.
***
Katarin’s whimpering disturbed Gwenn. ‘What is it, little one?’ She yawned, turning in bed so she could embrace her sister.
‘Thunder,’ Katarin muttered, burying her head in Gwenn’s shoulder. ‘Katarin doesn’t like thunder.’
Gwenn listened. ‘But that’s not thunder, Katarin. That sounds like someone trying to get in.’ She pushed her sister’s clinging hands to one side and strained her ears. ‘No, it most certainly is not thunder. Someone’s forcing the–’ Gwenn broke off. This was no casual visitor seeking shelter.
Wondering what had happened to the guard and why the alarm bell was not ringing, Gwenn swung out of bed and groped for an unlit candle stub. ‘Stay there, Katarin. Watch Philippe. Papa! Papa!’ she called, running to the solar hearth and shoving the wick of the candle into the faintly glowing embers. The candle sputtered reluctantly into life and, belatedly, the tocsin began to peal.
Jean emerged from his bedchamber half clothed and buckling on his sword. ‘Get dressed,’ he said. Snatching up his shield, he dived for the twisting stairs. ‘Keep Katarin and Philippe up here. If necessary, don’t hesitate to bar this door.’
‘Aye, Papa.’ Barring the door would be a last, hopeless measure, for it would mean that all her father’s men were... Fear tied a knot in Gwenn’s belly, and her mind shied away from the gruesome images her imagination conjured up. Her father could not have meant that. Gwenn wondered what he had meant, and how she was to judge when locking the door was necessary. A thousand other questions milled round in her sleep-dazed mind, but they too must go unanswered.
Holding her candle high, Gwenn’s gaze swept the solar. The glazed eyes of half a dozen women blinked up at her. There was no sign of panic yet, only confusion. The thundering assault on the hall door had settled into a rhythm so regular it was almost soothing.
‘You heard my father,’ Gwenn said, pleased her voice was steady. She did not want to set them screeching. ‘We must get dressed. Mary, light the candles, if you please. And Johanna, I’d be grateful if you could come and see to Philippe.’ Candle aloft, she led Johanna back to her niche, trying to remember if there were any weapons up here. They all had their eating knives, naturally, and there was a dagger at the bottom of Izabel’s ancient chest.