‘I’m known as Brother Marzin, but I’ve yet to take my vows.’
‘Marzin,’ Ned murmured. ‘Doesn’t fit.’
‘Eh?’
‘Nothing. I must be mistaken. When will you release us?’
The monk blinked uncertainly while his eyes accustomed themselves to the inky darkness of their prison. ‘The prior says–’ Brother Marzin broke off and turned aside to speak to someone who must have come up to stand beside him in the chapel yard. After a few moments’ murmured consultation, the monk’s round cheeks came back into view. ‘Prior Hubert is here.’
The prior’s clear-cut features replaced the blurred roundness of Brother Marzin’s. ‘Good day, young man.’
‘Good day, Brother.’
‘Father,’ the prior corrected him, thinning austere lips. ‘I am prior here.’ This bloody young man looked scarcely more personable than the knave who had just left. Prior Hubert did not like soldiers of any class. If monks were the body of Christ, mercenaries must be Satan’s. And because of these men of violence, the routine of St Félix’s was in disarray. Prime had been delayed.
‘My apologies, Father,’ Ned said, politely.
The prior’s taut lips eased. This one appeared to have some concept of courtesy. ‘I am sorry that you have been housed so ill, but Brother Dominig stressed the urgency of your plight, and his idea, though unorthodox, has proved sound. Your pursuers have gone, and as far as I can ascertain, they have no idea of your presence here.’
‘Thank God,’ Ned said, with feeling.
‘Do you think they’ll come back?’ Prior Hubert asked.
‘Christ’s wounds, I hope not.’
The prior rapped on the shutter with his staff. ‘I’ll not stand for blaspheming in God’s house.’
‘Sorry, Father.’
‘Would you mind telling me your circumstances? Brother Dominig’s account was inadequate.’
Gwenn moved into the weak slant of light. ‘We’re from Kermaria, Father Hubert,’ she said. There was no reason to be secretive with the man who had married her parents.
‘Kermaria?’ The lines on the lean face sharpened. ‘Who are you? What happened there?’
‘I am Gwenn Herevi, Sir Jean’s...natural daughter. Father, we were attacked. My father has been butchered by his enemies, and we are fleeing them. I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you took us in. They would have murdered my baby brother.’
Prior Hubert frowned. ‘Brother? I was under the impression that the infant was your son.’
‘No, Father. He’s my brother.’
‘Is this young man your husband?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Bear with me, my child, while I get this clear in my mind. You say your father is Sir Jean St Clair?’
‘Was. My father has been murdered,’ Gwenn said, and bit her lip to stop it trembling.
The prior’s voice gentled. ‘Forgive me for not realising sooner, mistress, but I could not make out your features in the murk. Accept my sympathies for your loss.’
‘Th..thank you, Father.’
‘If this young man is not your husband, who is he?’
‘Ned...Ned is...was... Papa’s captain.’
A pause. ‘It won’t do,’ Prior Hubert murmured. Truly God was testing this poor girl more than he tested most. ‘It won’t do at all.’
‘Father?’
The prior met her gaze. ‘Thinking you husband and wife, I deemed it safer for you to remain in the cell awhile.’
Katarin whimpered.
‘No, Father. My sister is frightened.’
‘Your father’s enemies might return to Kermaria via the monastery,’ the prior pointed out, ‘and you cannot outrun them.’
‘They might,’ Ned agreed. ‘It’s most likely they’ll have hidden their horses nearby, and this is the clearest track.’
‘I want Katarin out of here, Ned. It’s not healthy, and the poor child hasn’t said a word since we left Kermaria.’
Prior Hubert’s crook rapped on the shutter. He was determined to find out what God’s will was for these two, but the veil seemed unusually thick today. St Clair’s Captain was obviously a foreigner. Could he be trusted? ‘Young man? Do you have a...ah...what is the term? A strategy?’
‘Aye, Father. Before Sir Jean died, he instructed me to escort Gwenn and the children to kinsfolk in the north.’
‘And the name of these kinsfolk?’
Helplessly, Ned looked to Gwenn.
‘Wymark, Father,’ Gwenn said. ‘They have a manor at Ploumanach.’
‘Mmm.’ The prior glanced at the length of the shadows to assess the hour. By rights he should have finished reciting the morning office, but the plight of Jean’s St Clair’s offspring was no light matter. Prime would have to wait. He would do a penance for this later. The two faces in the cell were white like twin moons. Could he allow Jean St Clair’s offspring to put their lives in the hands of this young man? Were his intentions good or bad? ‘The name Wymark rings a faint bell,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Mistress Gwenn, how well do you know your father’s captain?’
‘Very well, Prior Hubert. But what–?’
The prior lifted a silencing hand to the opening. ‘Calm, daughter. I seek to help you. Do you have faith in your father’s captain? Is he an honourable man?’ The prior observed how intently the captain awaited Gwenn Herevi’s verdict. He had open blue eyes and they were filled with the most blatant longing, and a pinch of fear. Fear of what? Rejection?
‘Trust Ned?’ Gwenn sounded indignant. ‘Of course I do! Ned has more honour and nobility in his little finger than some great lords have in their entire bodies.’
Pleased, Prior Hubert inclined his tonsured head. He was beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel, and tentatively groped towards it. ‘You are confident that...er...Ned has your best interests at heart, my daughter?’
‘I am.’
‘Do you like him?’ Prior Hubert was a realist. Bastard as Gwenn Herevi was, her chance of finding happiness had been low while her father lived. And now, with Jean St Clair killed, she would have little to look forward to. A flush had washed over the captain’s cheeks. He was gnawing his lower lip, and his eyes were pinned on Gwenn with an adoration Prior Hubert deemed best reserved for one’s patron saint. On second thoughts, perhaps not. Ned’s look of longing was more carnal than chaste. The prior’s feeling was that the lad loved the girl and would see them all safely to their relatives.
God in his wisdom had directed the young couple’s feet to St Félix-in-the-Wood. If the prior saw them married, Gwenn Herevi would bear a new name. He could help her wipe out her parents’ sins, and start afresh. But though the prior was eager for the matter to be neatly resolved, he would not marry them if Gwenn Herevi had no liking for the lad. Patiently he waited for her answer. Her dark brows, he saw, had lowered. She had pride, considering she was a bastard, and she resented being manipulated.
‘Like Ned, Father?’ Her chin tightened. She might be a pretty and dainty maid, but Prior Hubert could see she could be trouble if she put her mind to it. She threw a smile at Ned, whose cheeks were as red as a poppy. ‘I like him very much, but when will you let us out of this dismal hole, Father?’
‘I apologise for the poor quality of the accommodation,’ Prior Hubert responded dryly, ‘but I fear it would be incautious to release you sooner than dawn tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? No, Father! We can’t spend a night in here! Have pity on my sister. And what about Philippe?’
‘I’ll release you now, on one condition.’
‘Anything,’ Gwenn said.
Prior Hubert drew in a breath. ‘I’ll release you if you’ll marry this young man.’
She gaped. ‘M...marry Ned?’
‘Sir Jean would not rest in peace, if I permitted you to chase about the Duchy with–’
‘But Ned told you, Papa commanded him to take us north!’
‘I remember. And that merely strengthens my resolve to have you married. He would not have entrusted his children to this young man, if he did not think him worth–’