‘Covering up stray tracks,’ Johanna said. Someone had to be practical. She didn’t think praying would do much good. Satisfied that Philippe’s belongings would be burnt to nothing in a couple of heartbeats, Johanna scooped up a handful of ashes and ran back to the crib. Booting it into the darkest corner, she smeared its polished surface with the ashes, and stood back to admire her handiwork. She wiped her hands on her skirts and walked back into the solar.
At that moment, the door hinges came out of the wall and the door crashed flat, raising a small cloud of dust. For a few seconds there was a grim silence. A nail rolled loudly across the wooden boards. A woman gasped, and muffled it. Klara gave a shaky wail. And a heartbeat later Otto Malait, puce in the face and eyes because his blood was up, bore down upon the kneeling women, brandishing a crimson-tipped axe. Bella screamed.
Otto quartered the chamber for resistance; encountering none, he regretfully lowered his axe. Throwing a scornful glance at the quaking women, he strode past them, raised his frightful axe, and let it bite deep into the window shutters. ‘It’s black as pitch in here,’ he growled.
Outside the despoiled manor, darkness was retreating; and as wooden splinters darted in all directions, the rising sun shot orange spears of light into the solar. More de Roncier mercenaries poured over the wreckage in the doorway. Nicholas Warr, archer, was among them, his face carrying the uneasy expression of a man wearing a tunic that did not quite fit. He was carrying a blooded shortsword instead of his bow.
Mary saw him, and her jaw sagged. She drew a shaky cross on her breast. ‘Save us, Sweet Mother.’
Johanna regarded Otto with dull eyes. This was the Count’s right-hand man. ‘Captain Malait, isn’t it?’
He had gore in his beard. ‘Aye. And who might you be?’ He took off his helmet, but was no less terrible.
‘My name is Johanna.’
Otto’s eyes narrowed. This was Conan’s spy of a sister. ‘I hardly recognise you, you’re gowned so grandly. Where’s the brat? And where did Fletcher fly to?’
Johanna’s heart began beating with thick, slow, heavy strokes. She did not care a scrap about Gwenn Herevi, but this man must not reach Ned Fletcher, or her Philippe.
‘Spit it out, slut.’
‘You’re too late, Captain Malait.’
‘Too late? Where are they, girl?’
‘The babe caught a marsh fever,’ Johanna improvised. She knew a peasant’s baby had died a few days ago. ‘They buried him a week ago. Jean St Clair has no legitimate heir.’
The Viking’s eyes bored into her. ‘You’re lying! You would have sent word. Why did you not send word?’
It was a struggle to hold the pale, disbelieving gaze. ‘I would have, if Conan had come. Only my brother has not been here this past fortnight.’
Otto came to stand in front of her, and Johanna felt as though he could see through her flesh to the marrow of her bones. ‘You’re lying,’ he repeated, lifting his grisly axe. ‘And I want the truth, my pretty.’
Johanna discovered that she was prepared to die to protect Ned and the infant. She steeled herself not to cry out. She was dead anyway now he had gone.
‘She speaks truly!’ Mary burst out. Johanna watched, bemused, as Holy Mary surged up from the hearth, poker in hand, and corroborated her hastily spun web of lies. A flake of ash drifted from the tip of the poker. ‘Master Philippe died the Sabbath before last, and the little mite sleeps in the graveyard yonder.’ Using the poker, Mary pointed at the wall beyond which lay the hallowed ground of the graveyard.
Not in a thousand years would Johanna have guessed that Holy Mary had it in her to lie so convincingly. Finding that she was glad to have kept all her limbs in one piece, Johanna fired a grateful look at her before squinting surreptitiously at the fire. Not a shred of the baby’s linen remained. Relief – which she never thought to feel again – flooded through her. Perhaps, with Mary’s assistance, she might secure Ned’s escape...
‘Look, Captain,’ Johanna said, ‘look at the cradle. You can see for yourself it’s not been used lately.’
Stalking to the empty wooden crib, Malait peered in. ‘It’s soiled.’
‘Aye,’ brave, saintly Mary backed her up, ‘it’s not been used in over a week.’
Otto drew off his gauntlets and ran a calloused finger the length of the crib. It came away coated in grime. He rubbed finger and thumb together and lifted them to his nose. He sniffed. ‘Too soiled, perhaps?’
Johanna looked innocent.
‘You’re lying.’
‘No,’ Johanna said, too shrilly. ‘No.’
‘Here, Warr,’ Otto addressed a man whom Johanna had not seen before. ‘Take this wench and get someone to disarm the one with the poker.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
Otto did a tour of the chamber. Johanna held her breath. When he reached the privy he ripped the screen aside. The curtain rings jingled and danced on their pole. Johanna saw a muscle clench in the furred, blood-spattered cheek, and closed her eyes. She wished she had more courage, not for herself, but so she could help Ned Fletcher. Mary’s lips were moving in silent prayer. Was it the praying that had imbued Mary with this startling new courage? Perhaps Johanna had misjudged the power of prayer. If it worked for Mary... For the first time in her life, she started to pray.
‘Keep these two in custody until I get back, Warr,’ Otto ordered tersely. ‘I don’t want them slinking into the shrubbery.’
‘Aye, Captain.’ The man was bruising Johanna’s arm. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve a mind to play tag with the concubine’s daughter.’
Johanna held the muscles of her face in as neutral a pose as she could. ‘The babe is dead,’ she said, in a voice as clear as a bell. ‘You’re wasting your time.’
The Norseman’s smile was repellent. ‘I’ll learn the truth of that when I catch them, won’t I? You can’t keep a baby stowed away for long – a live one, that is. And when I get back, you and I, my girl, will have a little chat. I shall look forward to it.’ Roughly he pinched Johanna’s chin and strode to the stairwell.
‘Captain?’
‘What is it, Warr?’
‘What about the other women?’
Otto hoisted heavy shoulders. ‘Let them go,’ he said. ‘Spineless jelly-fish, every one. They’re no use to us.’
‘They might know something.’
In the thick beard, Otto’s lips curled. ‘If we set to work on that lot, we’d get nothing but screeches.’ Bella let out a howl. Otto raised an eloquent brow and exchanged looks with Warr. ‘See what I mean?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘The jelly-fish may go, but I want these ladies,’ Malait jabbed a thumb at Johanna and Mary, ‘kept safe for me. If you lose them, I’ll have your liver roasted for my dinner.’
Warr gave a thin smile. ‘They’ll be safe, sir. There’s a vault under the hall. I’ll lock them in there.’
‘Judas!’ Mary screeched. And to her own surprise as much as Johanna’s, she spat in his face.
Chapter Nineteen
Firebrand was full of the joys of spring and too many oats, Alan reflected, as he concentrated on keeping the courser on a short rein. They were passing the huddle of stalls and booths which had been set up by enterprising traders inside Vannes’ West Gate. Alan did not want the Duke’s highly strung horse to cause an accident. A proud, showy creature, Firebrand drew all eyes. Alan felt like a knight.
A whore with lips painted red as ripe cherries gave him a hopeful look. She was up early. He returned the harlot’s smile, shook his head, and rode past her. Ribbons which matched the girl’s lips were threaded through a mass of curly dark hair. She was youthful and pretty, if one did not look too closely at her eyes – they were hard as flint.
Firebrand resented the restraining hand on the reins and, sensing Alan was momentarily distracted, bucked experimentally. The whore hopped briskly out of the way. ‘Poxy knight!’ she shrieked, with the rancour of someone who saw a fat profit slipping through her fingers. Her breasts heaved. ‘Trampling over poor, simple folk.’