Brother Marzin eased the silent child over the stones. ‘Relax,’ he said softly. ‘You’re stiff as a board.’ Briefly, the girl’s hazel eyes met his and the look in them sent an icy shiver racing down his spine. No child ought to have eyes like that. They were tired, exhausted eyes; the eyes of an old, embittered woman who had too many sorrows to mourn them all. And under those chilling eyes, charcoal smudges bruised olive skin that was otherwise smooth and unblemished. The girl’s clothing and person, unlike her sister’s, were scarcely disturbed. Brother Marzin was puzzled. Unless one saw those tragic eyes one would assume that she had escaped entirely unscathed from whatever Armageddon had driven them here. He put the child down, and Gwenn’s free arm curled protectively about her shoulders, like a mother hen hiding her chick under her wing.
The soldier was emerging. He did not need assistance. Brother Marzin caught sight of his profile and stared. With the captain’s countenance no longer masked by gloom, this was the first time he had been able to take in the details of his appearance. Stiffening, the monk’s eyes narrowed as his gaze washed over the dust-dimmed fair hair, the square chin, and the widely set blue eyes.
‘Ned?’ He couldn’t believe it. ‘Ned Fletcher?’ The last time Brother Marzin had seen his cousin had been well over four years ago, at Easby, back in England. His playmate had changed. Ned had filled out. He had been a thin, stringy streak of a child but the young man standing in Saint Félix’s chapel was all lean, hard muscle. There were other changes. Ned’s jawline was more pronounced, he carried himself with a deal more pride; nonetheless, he was recognisable as the cousin with whom Marzin had played many a game in their brief childhood.
Stepping into the nave, Ned blinked as his eyes adjusted to the comparative brightness of the church. ‘Brother?’
‘Ned!’ Brother Marzin held out hands that were splotched with paint pigments, and his eyes twinkled. ‘Don’t you recognise me?’
‘I...I know your face, but your name...Marzin?’ Ned gave his head a shake, as though that might prompt a faulty memory.
‘Ned, you’re from my old life. To you, I am William.’
‘William!’ Ned’s face cleared and, striding forwards, he shook him vigorously by the hand. ‘Cousin William! I should have known you at once, if it wasn’t for the soupy murk in there. William!’ The years rolled away, and Ned prodded the novice’s protruding stomach with easy familiarity. ‘You’re exactly the same, except that this has grown. You’re plump as a partridge.’
‘Aye. And you’re taller than ever, Longshanks.’
Ned grinned. ‘Ah, William, you’re a sight for sore eyes, truly you are!’ He turned to Gwenn. ‘Mistress...that is...Gwenn...’ He flushed, it was hard to remember he had the right to call her by her first name. ‘I know this monk.’
‘So I see.’
‘He’s William, my cousin, William le Bret. William, this is Gwenn Herevi. We...we are to be married.’
‘Prior Hubert told me we were having a wedding today,’ William was all smiles, ‘but I’d no notion it was to be yours.’
‘Cousin? William le Bret?’ Gwenn murmured. ‘A relation of Alan le Bret’s?’
‘His brother.’
The resemblance was not clear to Gwenn. The pleasant but unremarkable features of this round, merry novice had none of Alan’s distinctive, chiselled lines, and his manner was humble, not proud.
William’s rotund face had collapsed. ‘Aye, mistress. Do I take it you have the misfortune to be acquainted with my brother?’
‘Indeed. It was no misfortune. Your brother saved my life.’
The novice blinked, apparently startled. ‘Alan saved you? From what? And how much did you have to pay him for that service, pray? A king’s ransom?’ Strange shadows chased across the young monk’s face.
‘I didn’t pay him anything.’
Ned stepped in. ‘William, no. Don’t go raking up old coals.’
William laughed, unhappily. ‘Depend upon it, mistress, Alan would have been after something.’ He saw Gwenn glance at a wrapped bundle Ned had dropped on a pile of masonry. ‘I’ve never known Alan lift a finger to help anyone unless he stood to gain by it.’
Feeling as though she had wandered into a quagmire, Gwenn held her peace.
‘Enough, William, please,’ Ned said. ‘Alan never was the black sheep you would have painted him.’
‘Was he not?’ William shrugged. ‘You always idolised him. You should never have chased after him when he left Richmond.’ He hesitated, and his chubby cheeks reddened. ‘I expect you’ve seen him more recently than I. I’ve not seen him since before he left.’
‘William, I don’t believe you’re as set against Alan as you like to make out. You want to know how he is.’ William scowled. With a gentle smile, Ned put him out of his misery. ‘I last saw Alan roughly two years ago. He’d made it to captain and was off to find work with Duke Geoffrey. He’s a fine soldier. When I was with him, none of our company could best him sword to sword. Your parents would have been proud of him.’
‘My father, Ivon, might,’ William acknowledged gruffly. A Breton sergeant, Ivon le Bret had retired from active soldiering, but he continued to work in the armoury at Richmond Castle in Yorkshire. ‘Mother died the winter Alan ran off. She never was the same after he left.’ The novice waved Ned’s protestations of sympathy aside, and his tone grew sharp. ‘Like you, Mother thought the world of him. I never did understand why she favoured him so. A worthless brawler who considered no one but himself–’
‘William, that’s not true.’
‘Isn’t it? We were happy till he left. Oh, I know Father always thought more of Alan because of his fascination with anything military. And because I was more interested in wielding a pen than a sword, I was overlooked.’ William’s stomach growled. He was on a strict fast since he was due to take his final vows the next day, and it was making him irritable.
‘You’re letting jealousy warp your memories, William,’ Ned said. ‘Ivon is proud to have a son who can read and write. I heard him tell my mother as much.’
William’s nostrils flared. ‘He had a strange way of showing it. It was always Alan he spent time with.’ William looked down at his sandals and wriggled his toes. He shook his head at himself. ‘My apologies, Ned. I don’t often let demons run away with my tongue.’
‘You blame him for your mother’s death. My aunt, William’s mother,’ Ned explained to Gwenn, ‘was a delicate woman. But her death and Alan’s departure from Richmond might have been no more than an unhappy coincidence.’
William straightened his round shoulders. ‘I’m happy Alan achieved his ambitions. Happy to hear that the devil might still be alive. I have often wondered. I did pray for him, despite my anger.’
‘I’m sure you did.’ Ned patted his cousin’s arm, and wondered what hour it was. He felt exhausted. ‘I thought, when you came to the cell window, that you were familiar, but when you informed me your name was Marzin, it put me on the wrong track. Why Marzin?’
William le Bret’s round face lightened, and he indicated his fellow novice. ‘Brother Dominig and I take our vows on the morrow. It’s a custom of this house that new members of the order adopt a new name as a token of our turning our back on our old way of life.’ He threw an enquiring look at Ned. ‘If you think it safe to stay till morning, I’d be glad if you and your lady would consent to witness my profession. We are allowed representatives from the outside world. I had no one coming, but now you are here, I’d be honoured if you’d stay.’
Ned glanced at Gwenn. He could not say whether it was safe to stay or not.
‘I’m very tired, Ned,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps we could sleep here.’
‘We’ll stay,’ Ned decided, ‘but I will keep watch.’
‘No, Ned! You’ll be worn out and not fit to travel.’
William concurred, ‘Your lady is right. You’re not built of iron. I’m fasting, and I have a vigil to keep in here with Dominig; but I can ask one of our brothers to keep watch.’