***
Fretful crying woke Gwenn soon after dawn. Disoriented, she wondered why Johanna had not run to attend to Philippe. Confident that the wet nurse would see to her brother in a moment, Gwenn lazed comfortably until yesterday’s events rushed into her consciousness. Her stomach lurched.
Papa was dead, and Raymond, and Waldin, and... Shuddering, Gwenn nuzzled closer to the comforting warmth of Ned’s long body. She was in a Benedictine guesthouse. Outside, a mule was braying – on and on, like a creaky saw. She was steeling herself to climb out of bed and look the ruins of her world in the face, when Philippe fell silent.
Ned stirred and opened an eye. ‘Good morning, wife,’ he mumbled, and smoothed her dishevelled hair.
‘Good morning, Ned.’ Recollecting what had happened between them, Gwenn blushed, and gave him a shy smile. She opened her mouth to say more but Philippe began to wail again, more demandingly this time. It was impossible to ignore him. Rubbing her eyes, she levered herself upright and saw they were no longer alone. The door of the guesthouse was open, and horizontal bars of grey light streamed into the chamber. Another traveller’s belongings were strewn over one of the palliasses. In normal times it would be quite unexceptional for a guest in a monastery lodge to awaken and find they were sharing lodgings with strangers. Monks’ guesthouses were popular with travellers. But these were not normal times.
Elbowing Ned in the ribs, Gwenn indicated the figure seated cross-legged by the fire. A dark-haired man, in a short, serviceable green tunic with a broad leather belt, he was not dressed for fighting and did not look like one of de Roncier’s hounds. The newcomer had his back to them, and he had apparently been blowing on the fire to resurrect it, for he had small twigs and kindling in one hand. His other hand was raised to the baby, and long, nail-bitten fingers carefully stroked Philippe’s cheek. Certainly not a de Roncier man. It was his touch, Gwenn realised, that had quieted her brother. Katarin was awake, thumb, as ever, jammed into her pink mouth. She was sitting on her mattress facing the newcomer, with her honey-brown hair spilling over her eyes. Unperturbed by the newcomer, Katarin wore a dreamy look, as though she had not been awake long.
The man’s sword was unbuckled and lay on top of a dark mantle, but Ned was not about to take any risks. Under cover of Gwenn’s cloak, his fingers crept to his sword hilt. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. The newcomer turned, an amused smile lighting familiar grey eyes.
Gwenn gasped.
Ned let go of his sword hilt as though he’d grasped a bunch of nettles.
‘So formal, Ned?’ Alan rose to his feet and bowed in that mocking way of his.
‘Alan! Jesu, what are you doing here?’ Ned leapt up to embrace his cousin.
‘I might ask the same of you,’ Alan answered with an arch look at Gwenn who was painfully conscious that Alan must have watched them sleeping in each other’s arms. ‘You’ve changed, Ned. What are you up to? I would never have put you down as a despoiler of innocents.’
With an incoherent mutter Gwenn got up and went, hot-cheeked, to see to her brother’s needs.
‘Gwenn and I are married, Alan, if that’s what you mean,’ Ned said, stiffly.
‘No need to raise your hackles,’ Alan smiled. ‘The redoubtable prior told me you were wed. Congratulations.’
‘Alan, William is here, did you know? It’s his profession today.’
The dark head nodded. ‘I met him coming in. We’ve settled our differences, and I’ll stay to see him tonsured.’
Ned’s lips curved. ‘I’m glad of that. His grievances were eating away at him. Did he tell you they’ve made an artist of him?’
‘So I understand. It would seem there’s no stopping him. He tells me he’s been invited to Mont St Michel to paint the cloisters once he’s professed and has finished work here. It’s a high honour. I’m glad he’s found his true vocation.’
‘Has he accepted ours?’ Ned asked with a lopsided grin.
Alan laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say he accepts it, Ned. Tolerates it, perhaps.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I know what happened at Kermaria. It must have been hell on earth. Mistress, I’m sorry about your family, truly sorry. You have my deepest sympathies.’
‘Th...thank you.’ Philippe’s mouth was gaping like a hungry fledgling’s. The monks had provided Gwenn with a thin, milky gruel of soaked oats, and she tried to spoon it in, but she was unused to feeding her brother, and most of the gruel dripped down his chin. Johanna had made feeding him look so easy.
‘What do you plan to do?’
Trusting a dribble had gone down her brother’s throat, Gwenn answered. ‘We’re going north.’
‘North? Why north?’
Ned explained. ‘We go to Ploumanach. Gwenn has kinfolk there.’
Alan looked sceptically at the children. ‘And you travel with these infants?’
‘What do you expect us to do with them?’ Gwenn glared indignantly at Alan. ‘Leave them behind? We have to get my brother to safety. The Count will kill him if he can.’
Alan rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Why should de Roncier hurt your brother, mistress?’
‘My father married my mother, and Philippe was born after their marriage.’ Her brown eyes were bright with defiance, as though she expected him to deride her own birth.
He caught her drift at once, and did not mock her. ‘So the babe is St Clair’s legitimate heir? Jesu. Poor sod. Poor, innocent, little sod.’
‘Alan!’ Ned said.
Placidly, Gwenn spooned more mess into her brother. After a pause, during which she shovelled with grim concentration, her head lifted. ‘So you see we must get them away. The Count will not rest until his position is secure.’ Sensing he did not have all of his sister’s attention, Philippe seized his chance, grabbed the spoon, and gruel slopped onto the floor. ‘Hell’s Teeth, Philippe, why did you do that?’
Alan covered his mouth with his hand and couldn’t bring himself to look at Ned. Gwenn mopped up the spill, recaptured the spoon, and continued her battle with the gruel.
‘I thought one of the ports would be the best bet, Alan,’ Ned said. ‘We’ve enough money to hire passage on a coastal trader. It’s by far the swiftest route – we’ll have them safe in a couple of days.’
‘We?’ Alan murmured, a slight frown nicking his brow.
‘That’s my plan. What do you think of it?’
Alan remembered the fleet of de Roncier ships jostling at their moorings on Vannes quayside. ‘Not much.’
‘What’s wrong with it? You can’t tell me it would be quicker to ride to Ploumanach?’
The fire had taken hold, and while he put his mind to his cousin’s problem, Alan kicked more wood onto the flames. Sitting down, he crossed his legs, pulled his cloak from under his sword, and spread it out to dry.
‘Alan?’
‘Take your ease while I mull this one over.’ Ned sat down. ‘Listen, Ned. If de Roncier is after the babe, the ports are the first place he will go. His men are crawling all over them – I know, I saw them in Vannes the day before yesterday.’ Alan glanced at the plump bundle now dozing contented as a cat in Gwenn’s arms. More by luck than good management, St Clair’s heir had eaten his fill. ‘You are quite sure he’s after the babe?’
‘There’s no doubt of it.’
‘I advise you to go by land. Hire a guide with the money you would have spent on a ship. Inland Brittany is mostly forest, and if you find a guide with knowledge of the byways you should be safe enough. It’s wooded almost all the way, the trees will be your shield.’
Ned pursed his lips and looked at Gwenn to assess her reaction. ‘It would take five days, maybe more, even with horses, which we haven’t got.’