‘We’ve imposed enough.’
‘Nonsense! You are guests. And we are used to vigils, it is no trial to us monks to watch out for you.’
‘My thanks.’ Ned capitulated with a grin of relief. ‘But I’ll not be able to name you Marzin. You’ll always be William to me. You look well. The monastic life suits you. They can’t fast you too much.’
Ruefully, William put a hand to his extended belly. ‘On the whole, they feed me well. When I explained to the prior that I couldn’t paint on an empty stomach, he was very understanding.’ His stomach growled again and he gave Ned a rueful glance. ‘But because I’m being professed tomorrow, I must fast today. All day.’ Sighing, he looked his cousin over. ‘You look reasonably fit too, Ned, but what happened to your face? Someone should tend to that cut on your arm.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Gwenn said, ‘when I’ve seen to the children.’
William shook his unshorn thatch of hair. ‘You’ve enough taking care of the little ones, mistress. Brother Dominig will show you to the guesthouse. I’ll see to Ned.’
Gwenn thanked him and followed Brother Dominig to the reed-thatched hut which served as guesthouse for the order.
When the cousins were alone, Ned succumbed to the feeling of exhaustion which had been threatening to steal over him for some minutes, and sagged onto a chunk of masonry. ‘What’s the hour, William?’
‘Mid-afternoon.’
‘God’s teeth, is that all? Why is my body telling me its midnight?’
‘You look like death,’ William said frankly. ‘What happened, Ned?’
‘We’ve been through the mill today, old friend.’
‘Mmm?’ Making encouraging noises, William set about peeling aside the rags of what had once been a serviceable tunic from Ned’s left arm. He grimaced. ‘A messy gash,’ he muttered, ‘but not deep. We’d best go to the water butt. I’ve ointments ready.’
Ned dragged himself to his feet. While William bathed and treated his injuries, Ned squatted on an upturned bucket by the water barrel and told his tale. William was pale when he had done.
‘What about the law?’ William asked. ‘Will this enemy of St Clair’s get away with this outrage, this murder?’
‘Count François is the law around Vannes,’ Ned answered dryly. ‘The Duke is only interested in milking his Breton estates of their revenues.’
William let out a low whistle. ‘You’re up against Count François de Roncier? You pick a fine man to cross swords with, Ned.’
‘I know. And I do know the Count, William. Alan and I took our first commission with him, not knowing the man’s true colours. And by the time we had found out, it was too late, for we were sworn to him.’
‘Why didn’t you leave?’ William asked, working at Ned’s shoulder.
‘Leave? You ask me that? We were sworn to the man, William. A sacred oath.’
‘Sacred? Honour amongst thieves, eh? A routier’s oath is sacred, is it?’
Ned frowned. William would never understand. ‘No one would take you on if they heard you broke your word. God may not smile on mercenaries, William, but even mercenaries have some honour.’
‘I wrong you, Ned, I’m sorry. But to kill for pay...’
‘Your bishops have been known to fight in Holy War,’ Ned pointed out.
‘A crusade. That’s different,’ William said stiffly.
‘Is it? Oh hell, William. I’ve never been one for nit-picking. Let’s not argue. All I want is rest. When you’ve finished hacking at my arm, I’d like to go and find Gwenn.’
‘Hacking, you call it?’ William pretended to bridle. ‘I’ll have you know I’m counted the best healer in the monastery.’
‘Then heaven preserve me from the worst!’ Ned said lightly. He winced as William tied a linen bandage in place. ‘My thanks.’ He stood up, and yawned. ‘I’ll be glad when this day is done.’
The twinkle had leapt back into William’s brown eyes. ‘Naturally, for you’ll be a married man by then, won’t you, Ned?’
A crimson tide washed up Ned’s cheekbones to the roots of his hair. ‘I...I wasn’t thinking of that.’
‘Comely maid, I should think, when she’s tidied up a bit?’ William said, an unholy gleam in his eyes.
‘Aye.’
‘She’s your choice?’ The bright colour flooded down Ned’s throat. William chuckled. ‘Your choice. I wish you luck, old friend.’
‘My thanks, we shall need it,’ Ned said, grappling for sanity while he tried to turn a deaf ear on the refrain which had begun piping in his head. One phrase was being repeated over and over again. Tonight, Gwenn Herevi will be your wife. Your wife. Your wife. Your wife.
***
Night was closing in. Prior Hubert had married them after Vespers. The children were asleep in the guesthouse, and Gwenn was preparing for bed.
In constructing their one-roomed guesthouse, the brethren had made use of the forest’s most plentiful resource, wood; and though the cottage was a modest one, it was soundly built. Not only did it have a wooden frame, but it had planked walls in place of the more usual wattle and daub. The monks slept communally, and their dormitory was built on the same lines. There were differences between the two buildings, however. For one thing, the monks’ dormitory was double the size of the cottage; also the interior of the guesthouse was roughly plastered for insulation, as though the monks deemed that their feeble-minded lay visitors needed coddling, while they, bolstered by their faith, did not.
The plaster aside, there were no other refinements. The cottage had been built according to a design that was ages old when the Romans invaded Brittany. The fireplace was nothing more than a ring of stones in the centre of a pounded earth floor. There was no opening in the roof to let out the smoke, so it must rise up and billow in the crossbeams until it wound its way out through the thick reed thatch. Four plain, wooden bed-boxes were ranged round the fire – they occupied almost all the space. The brothers’ guesthouse was simply somewhere travellers could put their heads down and rest.
Ned had collected kindling for a fire which glowed softly in the centre of the room. The door of their lodgings was ajar, in a futile attempt to clear the room of some of the smoke, and Ned leaned thoughtfully on the door frame. He was wearing Sir Jean’s fine woollen cloak which Gwenn had brought with her and given him, together with a bleached linen chainse and fresh tunic that his cousin had dug out of storage.
Gwenn held a reed taper to the tallow candle which Brother Dominig had jammed into a candlestand. The iron stand stood tall as a man, it was eaten with rust and had a crick in its stem so it leaned at a drunken angle. There were no other furnishings. When Gwenn lit the candle, the smelly fat spat and splashed onto one of the mattresses. A moth fluttered through the doorway, and was drawn inevitably to the fire. ‘Ned?’
Ned started. ‘Mistress?’
‘Please shut the door. It’s not getting rid of the smoke, we’ll be plagued with insects, and the draught is making this candle burn unevenly.’ The door closed softly. ‘Ned?’
‘Yes?’ Unbuckling his sword, Ned was wondering which mattress to sleep on. Carefully he placed his sword by the fire, with its guard undone so he could draw it at a moment’s notice. Whichever mattress he slept on, he’d want his sword close to hand. He picked the one nearest the door, lest the alarm bell rang in the night. He could not presume to lie with his wife after all she had suffered this day. It felt peculiar to regard her as his wife.
‘You cannot call me Mistress Gwenn all our married life.’
‘I know.’ Ned smiled at her across the flames, thinking how pretty she was in the fireglow. The shadows masked the strain on her face, and the kindly light lent a faint flush to her pale cheeks. His wife. ‘But habits cannot be changed overnight. Your father was insistent I kept my distance.’ He broke off, cringing at his appalling tactlessness. ‘Gwenn, forgive me, I did not mean to remind you...’