‘I’m glad to be here,’ Mary lied stoically. ‘I am glad to share in your courage, Johanna. You are a brave, loyal girl, and I’d not have you face them alone.’
‘I’m not brave. And I’m certainly not the least bit loyal,’ Johanna said. ‘I only...only wanted the babe to be safe.’ And Ned Fletcher, she added silently.
‘You are brave, Johanna,’ Mary insisted with the confident, ringing tones of a brimstone preacher. ‘You can dress it how you will, but I know you are brave. And seeing you – the only one out of all of us with the faith to face that...that monster of a man – why, you inspired me.’ Mary clasped Johanna’s hand. ‘We’ll face them together.’
This was the first time that Johanna had drawn comfort from another woman’s touch, used as she was to viewing all other women as potential rivals. She returned the pressure on her hand, answering huskily, ‘Aye. We face them together.’
The scraping of the bolt made an end to conversation. Light angled into the vault. Two men entered, the Viking Captain and Nicholas Warr. As Johanna had predicted, Malait was clutching a waterskin.
Getting hastily to their feet, the women exchanged glances. Mary licked parched lips. Johanna wondered about Ned Fletcher. Neither of them smiled.
‘Good morning, my pretties.’ Otto swaggered towards them, tantalisingly swinging the waterskin from a thong wrapped round his solid wrist. ‘I thought it was time we had our little chat. Warr?’
‘Captain?’
‘Secure the door, and bring that lamp over. I want to mark their expressions.’
‘Aye, sir.’
The Viking raised his water bottle and, removing the stopper, took a long pull. Water dribbled down his chin, and the rivulets were soaked up in his forest of a beard. Both women stared fixedly at the lamp the archer was carrying. ‘Not thirsty, eh?’ In the beard, the wide mouth curved. ‘Pity. You won’t want this, then.’ Upending the container, Malait poured the contents onto the floor.
Mary shut her eyes and her dry throat tried in vain to swallow.
‘You’ve a visitor, little spy,’ the captain said, looking at Johanna.
Mary’s hand jerked in Johanna’s, and the wet nurse felt the other woman’s eyes boring into her. ‘A visitor?’
‘Your brother. He’s anxious for your welfare. Shall I send him in?’
‘You’ve already decided what you will do,’ Johanna said, dully. ‘Nothing I say will have any effect on your actions.’
Otto did not gainsay her.
Mary had withdrawn her hand from Johanna’s and was regarding her suspiciously. ‘What does he mean, Johanna? Little spy? You could not have been in this man’s employ. Johanna?’
‘Oh, be quiet, Mary, can’t you see he seeks to break our amity?’
Otto’s thick finger stabbed at Mary. ‘You, get upstairs. I want you to show me where St Clair is supposed to have buried his brat. While you, little spy, can wait here. I’ll send Conan down when we’ve found the grave.’
The faintest of sighs slid past Johanna’s full lips. Ned Fletcher must have got the babe away. Both must be safe.
***
Holding up the lamp as he entered the cellar, Conan saw his sister was perched on a casket of salt beef, gently pressing her breasts. ‘Missing the babe, Johanna?’ he asked indifferently.
Johanna raised her head and looked listlessly at him. ‘I only gave him suck in the evenings. I was trying to wean him. It doesn’t hurt much. My milk will soon dry up.’ She wondered if Conan had been sent to pronounce sentence on her. Mary must have shown Malait the grave of the peasant baby by now. Had it convinced Malait that St Clair’s heir was dead? Conan’s face was impassive, it gave nothing away. Johanna wondered what her fate would be if Malait remained suspicious. Would they torture her to make her talk? Vikings were renowned for violence and cruelty throughout Christendom.
‘Well, Conan, what’s to do?’
‘You’re free.’
‘Free?’
‘You’re to come home with me. Here, you’ll be thirsty.’ Casually, the pedlar tossed a bulging waterskin onto her lap.
Johanna hid her astonishment behind as blank a front as she could summon. Ducking her head, she made a show of fumbling at the stopper. ‘What happened to Mary?’ she managed, and to give herself time to think, she put the bottle to her dry lips and drank.
‘Not much. The maid pointed out the infant’s grave to Malait, and now she’s on her way to Huelgastel.’
‘What...what made him believe us? I should have thought your captain would take some convincing.’
‘He verified that what you said was the truth.’
‘Verified? How?’
‘Captain Malait had the grave dug over and found a baby boy.’
‘No!’
Conan was amused by his sister’s revulsion. ‘Time we started back for Vannes, Johanna. Drink up.’
Johanna felt sick, with relief as well as revulsion. Thank Christ the grave had contained a boy. If it had been a girl, it would have been her death warrant.
She kept her head down as she walked through the hall and into the courtyard. The yard was become a charnel house, with the bodies of the slain stacked under sheeting like logs ready for winter. She averted her eyes, but not before she glimpsed a leg sticking out from underneath the table linen. She had only lived at Kermaria for a few months, and never expected to feel sympathy for the people here, but now, seeing them laid out like so much dead wood, Johanna discovered she’d stayed long enough for fellow feeling to have grown.
Anxious to shake the dust of Kermaria from her shoes, she turned her face to the bridge.
In the solar, conferring with Nicholas Warr, Otto watched from the high window. ‘There she goes, Warr.’
Nicholas Warr stared at Johanna’s retreating back. ‘You say she refused to administer poppy juice to the child?’
‘So her brother maintained.’
‘And you suspect she’s keeping something back?’
Otto bared discoloured teeth. ‘I’m as sure of that as I’m sure the sun will rise at tomorrow’s dawning.’
‘Then why let her go, Captain?’
Otto’s smile was tinged with triumph. ‘Because, my dear fellow, she’s as mutinous a wench as you could hope to meet, and now she’s released, she will be off her guard. Her brother will be able to worm whatever it is out of her faster than I could if I had her flayed alive.’
‘Do you trust the pedlar?’
Otto held up a chinking drawstring pouch. ‘He’s vermin. But as long as I hold this, I trust him. Conan will be back.’
***
‘You made me walk so far and so fast, Conan, my shoes are wearing out,’ Johanna said, stopping to sit on a milestone. A grey rat of a dog that had crawled out of the ground-elder by the Kermaria crossroads and had been shadowing them squatted in the road by her shoes and scratched a ragged ear. Conan had not slackened his pace, but Johanna picked up her feet and examined them. Blisters were forming – she was not used to walking. The mongrel’s stumpy tail gave a tentative wag. ‘Why is this thing following us, Conan?’
With a sigh, Conan stopped and frowned over his shoulder. ‘It’s a pest, a stray.’ Impatience was building up within him. They had not progressed above three miles; she walked painfully slowly, did his sister. ‘You should have shown some restraint at table, Johanna,’ he said. ‘There’s too much of you to carry about, that’s why your feet ache. You’re fatter than ever you were before you went to Kermaria.’
A shadow darkened Johanna’s plump countenance. Ned had preferred Gwenn Herevi over her, and Gwenn Herevi was skinny as a rake. She did not like to think that there might be some truth in her brother’s accusation. ‘It’s all very well for you to criticise, Conan, but how could I let all that food go to waste? They ate well at the manor. A saint on a Lenten fast would have been tempted. Besides, I was eating for two.’
‘Three more like,’ Conan responded sourly.
Johanna flexed her feet, counted another blister on one of her heels, and began massaging her toes.