Sir Gregor and Lady Wymark’s solar was unlike any she had ever seen. Its walls were lined with richly coloured hangings. At the house in Vannes, Raymond had once recounted the Romance of Tristan to her, and Gwenn imagined King Mark’s pavilion would resemble Lady Wymark’s solar: all silk and satin and bright shimmery colours, with not a sharp corner in sight. It was hot too, for though a breeze floated gently through the seaward window and twitched the billowing wall-hangings, the fire was piled high with blazing logs and the heavy scent of burning pine filled the room.
After the hardships and uncertainties of the flight from Kermaria, this solar seemed like heaven. The children would be safe in this womb of a place, for Lady Wymark had to be like her solar – warm and welcoming.
Gwenn’s eyes could not linger on the furnishings, however exotic. She was waiting with bated breath for her relatives to reveal their hearts as well as their faces. She clasped her hands tightly to quell an almost irrepressible desire to play with her girdle.
‘You poor child!’ Lady Wymark murmured half rising from her seat, but a sharp, chopping movement of her husband’s blunt hand had her sinking back to her place.
‘You claim to be Izabel de Wirce’s grandchild?’ Sir Gregor asked. He had a deep, gravelly voice.
‘Aye, sir,’ hope warmed Gwenn’s breast, ‘but when my grandmother married, her name became Herevi.’
The knight scratched an ear. ‘Herevi...can’t place it. Don’t think I’ve heard that name before.’
‘No, sir. There’s no reason you should. Gwionn Herevi was only a squire when he married Grandmama.’ There was a few moments’ uncomfortable silence, enough to crush the faint hope which had stirred briefly in her breast.
‘A squire?’ Sir Gregor echoed, and though Gwenn did not know him, she could not miss the disbelief in his tone. ‘You’re telling me that Izabel de Wirce married a squire?’
Lady Wymark leaned forward, plump fingers twisting the hem of her veil. ‘That is true, my love. I recall my mother telling me that story. I believe there was quite a scandal at the time. Why–’
‘Peace, wife,’ Sir Gregor rumbled, waving for silence. Gwenn was beginning to feel as though she were a plaintiff in court. She was on trial. ‘And you maintain you are Izabel’s grandchild?’
‘I am.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘P..prove it? Why, I...I don’t know. I have nothing in writing, sir.’
Sir Gregor swung stiffly down from his perch and walked round her, and Gwenn had her first clear sight of him. He was squat, and strong-thewed, a wall of a man a yard broad. He had the build of someone who relished exercise. Most of his might lay in his shoulders and arms, and it looked a solid, immovable kind of strength, with no give in it at all. Sir Gregor was in his early fifties. He had thinning grey hair, and a certain inflexibility in his gait warned of incipient rheumatism. Hairy eyebrows drooped over mud-coloured eyes, and though at the moment he was eyeing Gwenn narrowly, Sir Gregor’s eyes were deeply set in a face criss-crossed with laughter lines. He was not, Gwenn sensed, a harsh man, but his grating voice and that stolid toughness made him the type of man about whom she would think twice before crossing.
‘My...my travelling companions will vouch for me,’ she stammered.
‘And who might they be that I should give them ear? A couple of mercenaries, and one of them, by your own admission, has married you. You wear no ring. You could be a group of travelling players out for an easy living for all I know. You’ll have to do better than that.’
Gwenn was bone weary. Gazing straight ahead of her, she kept her head high and sucked in some air, and with it, hopefully, some endurance. ‘As I explained, there was no opportunity to buy a ring.’ She met the knight’s eyes boldly. ‘Sir, if you’re not going to help us, please say so. I’ll take my leave and not trouble you further. As I said, I have money. Look.’ She drew out Waldin’s purse which, foreseeing this very objection, she had taken from Ned. She tore it open, grabbed Sir Gregor’s hand, and poured a cascade of coins into the wide palm. ‘Take it. Take it all, sir, and put it towards the cost of our upkeep.’
Giving the money no more than a glance, Sir Gregor said, gruffly, ‘You could use this to bring up your brother and sister yourself.’
‘Aye. But I couldn’t guarantee my brother’s safety in the same way that you could if you took us in. I have no way of knowing the Count’s plans. I have been honest with you, sir. There may be danger in taking my brother in.’
‘Has this de Roncier had you followed here?’ the deep-timbred voice asked.
‘I don’t know. We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him since leaving the monastery, but I cannot swear he’s forgotten us. He’s Herod reborn, and we might be bringing danger to your gates; but you have this fortified manor, and your men, and I could not provide all that.’
Lady Wymark stood up. She was short, with a full figure. ‘I believe she is telling the truth, Gregor,’ she said. ‘I believe we should let her stay. Poor lamb.’
‘Wait, Alis, you are always a mite hasty in your judgements.’ The knight tipped Waldin’s money into the wallet. ‘Is there no way you can prove you are Gwenn Herevi?’
‘Gwenn Fletcher. I am married to my father’s Captain of the Guard.’
‘Poor child.’ Lady Alis gave an expressive shudder. ‘Forced to marry a mercenary!’
‘No, my lady,’ Gwenn said, firmly. ‘You mistake the matter. I was not forced. Ned is a good man.’
Lady Alis could not have heard for she continued shaking her head. ‘Poor child. A mercenary!’
Sighing, Gwenn caught Sir Gregor’s muddy eyes on her. They were not unsympathetic. She turned to the table where she had placed her bundle and unwrapped the Stone Rose. ‘Sir, I am able to offer you more, if the money is not enough.’ As she folded back the linen and lifted the Virgin out, she heard Sir Gregor’s sharply indrawn breath. ‘Sir?’
‘Hand that over,’ the crusty voice ordered.
The statue shrank in his sinewy hands. After a lengthy examination, Sir Gregor lifted his head. ‘This stone is local to these parts,’ he said.
With a rustle of voluminous skirts, Lady Wymark approached her husband, and her plump, beringed fingers caressed the child sleeping in the Virgin’s arms. ‘I believe you’re right, Gregor,’ she said, stooping shortsightedly over the holy infant. She had brooding blue eyes, and when she bent her head, a double chin that her wimple could not contain. Wisps of light-brown hair escaped confinement, and baby-fine curls framed her face. Where her husband was solid and immovable, she was all softness and give. ‘There are rocks like this scattered all over the peninsular.’
‘To whom does this statue belong?’ the knight asked.
‘It was my grandmother’s.’
‘It was Izabel’s!’ Lady Wymark cried, dimpling sunnily at Gwenn. ‘Gregor, if this icon belonged to Izabel de Wirce, then you have the proof you need. This girl is whom she claims.’
‘Quiet, woman!’ Sir Gregor growled. The untidy brows twitched upwards. ‘Was this Izabel’s, Mistress Gwenn?’
‘Aye, sir. I understand it was her mother’s before that.’
The knight’s face crumpled into a smile that was as warm as his wife’s. ‘It would appear, Gwenn, my dear, that you have brought your proof with you. Welcome to Ploumanach.’
Overwhelmed with relief, though far from understanding what had brought about this sudden volte-face, Gwenn felt the tears rise. Lady Alis opened her arms and enveloped her in a perfumed embrace.