‘Open up, good brothers!’ he called, loudly.
The door opened at once, but the response had been so swift it could not have been in answer to Alan’s summons. A cloaked figure – a woman’s – flew through the portal, almost under Firebrand’s nose. The courser snorted and stamped his hoofs. Afraid the woman would be trampled, Alan hauled on his reins, and the Duke’s horse backed. ‘Take care,’ Alan said. He found himself looking down into huge dark eyes set in a washed-out oval face. The woman was young, but there was no time to make out more of her features, for she dragged her hood over her head.
‘My thanks, Brother, for hearing my confession at this hour,’ she murmured, in a low voice to the monk standing in the doorway. She tried to press a coin into his palm.
The monk refused the woman’s money. ‘My best reward would be if you would follow Our Lord’s words,’ he said.
‘Brother?’
‘Go and sin no more.’
The woman hung her head. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘But how could you?’ She glanced up at Alan, murmured what could have been an apology, and slipped into the night.
Alan heard a sigh, and transferred his attention to the hospitaller.
‘Good evening, my son.’
The monk was draped in the full black habit of the Augustinian Order, and the white cross on his mantle seemed to glow in the jumping torchlight. Alan inclined his head, and dismounted. ‘I’ve come on a mission of mercy, Brother. I’d like to buy food and–’
‘This is a hospital, not a market,’ the monk answered, austerely. The door closed to a chink.
‘I know, and my apologies for disturbing you at this hour. I would not do so if it was not urgent, but it is a matter of life and death, and I must be on the road at dawn.’
The hospitaller’s thin, freckled nose appeared in the gap. ‘Who are you? Are you a Rohan man?’
Alan hesitated, but found no reason to lie. ‘I ride with the Duke.’ He was not on the Duke’s business this night, but he need not admit that.
The chink gaped wide. ‘Come in then. You’d best bring your horse too. It wouldn’t be safe out there.’ The monk shook his head. ‘These are terrible times, my son.’
‘Aren’t they always?’ Alan responded lightly as he led Firebrand under the arch and into the torchlit courtyard.
***
Gwenn had wrapped her brother and sister in her cloak, and was telling Katarin a story to help send her to sleep. The arching branches crowded out moon and starlight, but St Félix’s good monks had given them an aged horn lantern, and as its light was faint, Ned had thought it safe to use it.
Stretched out on his cloak a few feet away, Ned watched his wife in the dull glow. Half of his attention was on the tale she told, while the other half was greedily drinking in the regular features of the face he had loved for so long.
He had heard Gwenn’s yarn many times before, but he always found it a delight. It was the story of a prince brought up among strangers because his family had enemies, and if those enemies found him, he would be in great danger. It was the story of King Arthur and his upbringing with his stepbrother, Sir Kay. Ned was not certain of the effect that particular tale would have on the traumatised child. Gwenn reached the point when Arthur drew the sword from the stone. When he heard the child’s sigh of pleasure, he relaxed.
With Alan gone to Pontivy, at last he and Gwenn were alone. Now she was his wife he could look at her without shame. He could watch the imperceptible movements of the muscles round her eyes and mouth, and he could enjoy looking at the curve of her lips. They were drawn down now, belying the lightness in her voice as she spun out the tale. Her shoulders drooped, betraying tiredness. Sorrow lingered heavily in her heart.
After a few minutes, her melodious voice faltered and came to a halt. The story had played its part. Dark lashes fanned out across the child’s pallid cheeks.
‘She’s asleep,’ Ned said. Rising, he offered Gwenn his hand to draw her to her feet.
‘Praise the Lord. I have a feeling that sleep might do more than any potion to heal her.’
‘You’ll have to waken her if Alan brings a physician.’
Gwenn nodded and dropped his hand, moving away from him towards their pack. Ned knew she was fighting for control. ‘Gwenn?’
‘Yes?’
She turned stiffly, but as she was looking down and her face was in shadow, Ned couldn’t read her expression. Guided by instinct, he murmured, ‘Fears and sorrows grow large at night, my Gwenn. Sunrise will diminish them.’ Hearing a choking sound, he moved closer and reclaimed her hand. Tentatively, he caressed her palm with his thumb. She stood like a creature of stone, staring at the ground. It seemed to Ned that she was waiting for something. He slid his arm round her waist and drew her, unresisting, towards him. ‘Gwenn, I love you,’ he said, unsteadily. ‘I want to ease your hurts.’
She lifted her head and brushed fingers that were as cold as marble across his cheek. ‘I know you do, Ned.’ She smiled, and even in the twilight it looked forced. ‘But you cannot.’
Ned made an inarticulate noise in his throat.
Her breast heaved. ‘I’m sorry. I feel as if I received a mortal blow at Kermaria, and however much I tell myself otherwise, I think no man can help me. Only God can help me. Do you think that God has deserted me?’
Ned shook his head. He pulled her head onto his chest. Doll-like, she hung in the circle of his arms. He held his passion in check, determined that this night he would only offer her comfort. Tenderly he kissed the top of her head. But he had not armed himself against the effect her fragrance would have on him, and no sooner had he breathed in the scent of rosemary and Gwenn, than desire stirred. When her body had been forbidden to him, he had been able to control his longings; but she was no longer forbidden. Gwenn Herevi had miraculously become Gwenn Fletcher, and her body was temptation itself. Ned’s loins ached, he was immediately aroused. He groaned. His wife’s sweet body knocked all thoughts but one from his mind. How weak he was where she was concerned, how damnably weak. He wanted to make love to her, here and now, and if he did not release her immediately she would know it.
‘Gwenn...’ confused by the force of his feelings for her, Ned put her at arms’ length and regarded her with a kind of desperation. She had such power over him. It was wrong that a woman should have such a hold on a man, quite wrong. He wanted to fling her to the ground and take her regardless of her wishes, he who loved her above all things.
She stepped towards him. ‘Ned.’
‘Don’t, Gwenn,’ he blurted, tormented. ‘I...I think you’d best stand back.’
Her lips curved in a sad, knowing smile, and she came a step closer. ‘It’s alright, Ned. I understand.’
Ned had a lump in his throat. He swallowed it down. ‘You do?’
She nodded, and placed a hand over one of his grazed ones. ‘Dear Ned,’ she said, gently kissing his battle-scarred fingers. ‘Dear, kind, considerate Ned.’
His fingers tingled. The tightness in his loins was unbearable. Manfully, he closed his eyes and tried not to moan. He heard her move, felt her take his hand and place it over a firm, sweet breast. His eyes snapped open. ‘G...Gwenn?’
‘Make love to me, Ned. Make me yours. Teach me to...’ Gwenn hesitated, she had been going to say ‘teach me to forget’, but instead she said, ‘teach me to love you, as you love me. I need your love, Ned.’
‘But...but...Alan? He might be back.’
‘He won’t return for an hour or so.’ And remembering how swift their union had been on their wedding night, she added innocently, ‘And it doesn’t take long, does it?’
Ned winced.
‘Ned? What’s the matter?’
‘N...nothing.’
She stood directly in front of him, rested her head against his chest and folded her slight arms about his waist. ‘It’s alright for you to love me, Ned. I’m your wife.’
‘Aye. But you...you didn’t... You...disliked it.’
She looked up, and he saw with surprise that her cheeks were darkly flushed. ‘Disliked it? No, Ned, I didn’t dislike it. I liked you liking it.’ And it took my mind off my hurts, she thought. ‘Is there more to it than that?’
Again Ned winced. She was offering herself to him, unaware that she stabbed at his pride with almost every word. She felt no passion for him. One day, he vowed, one day, he would make her feel...
‘Love me, Ned,’ she said, as delicate fingers slipped to his belt fastening.
Ned’s hand rose to her neck. His fingers burrowed deep into the scented softness of her hair. Lowering his head, he murmured, ‘God, Gwenn, I do love you. So very much.’
‘Then love me now, Ned. Love me now.’
Their lips met. Ned’s knees buckled, and they tumbled, a tangle of limbs, onto Jean St Clair’s cloak. Gwenn gave a shaky laugh and planting a kiss on her husband’s chin, pushed his tunic up so she could stroke his chest. Ned gave a shuddering gasp, and dragged Gwenn’s mantle over them.
His mouth searched for hers, while his trembling hand ran down her hips to find her skirt-hem. ‘Love you...’
Afterwards, Gwenn lay on her back listening to the sighing, whispering leaves that gave the forest its name, Bois de Soupirs. Ned’s head was lost in the crook of her arm, and she assumed he had fallen asleep. Fondly, she stroked his light hair. This lovemaking was a mystifying business. Like the first time, it had not taken long; and, as before, Ned’s cry of delight had been mixed with anguish. Gwenn’s conscience smote her. Ned longed for her feelings to match his. She would have to have been fashioned from ice to remain unmoved by his undisguised need for her love. She felt profound affection for him, and it gave her pleasure to give him ease, but she knew that a deeper emotion eluded her. If only her mind was not misted with sorrow.
Absently twirling a strand of Ned’s wavy hair round her forefinger, she sighed. She loved her husband and was pleased her body gave him joy. She felt loving affection for him, but not passion. Would passion grow? Alan managed to wring responses from her simply by talking to her. He had kissed her once... No. No. That was wrong. She must not permit herself to consider how she would feel if Alan were her lover. She was married. Besides, how he would mock her if he knew. Firmly suppressing the thought that it was a shame she did not react to her husband’s kisses as she did to Alan le Bret’s taunts, Gwenn’s mind came round to her husband again.
Dear Ned. Her dear, dear friend. In case he was awake, and because she did care for him, and did not like to think of him hurting, she whispered, ‘I love you, Ned.’ He murmured a response, and a warm kiss was pressed against her neck. He was awake. He lifted his head and his eyes glittered in the lamplight.
‘Gwenn,’ he said softly, and the despair in his voice caught at her heart, ‘one day, you will love me.’
‘But, Ned, I do.’
The flaxen head shifted in a negative gesture. ‘I don’t make your heart beat fast,’ he said, sadly. ‘The love you bear me is not enough. I fear...’
She smoothed a wrinkle from his brow. ‘What do you fear?’
‘One day you will meet someone who makes your heart knock against your breast. The blood will sing in your veins, and I will have lost you.’
She laughed. His cousin made her feel like that, but she was not fond of Alan in the way that she was of Ned.
‘I’m serious, Gwenn.’ His voice was sober, thoughtful. ‘You rouse me so that I can think of nothing but you. And when we make love, I want so much for you to be there with me.’
Another husky laugh. ‘But I am with you.’
‘No. No, my sweet Gwenn, you are not. My greatest fear is that one day you will meet someone who has the same effect on you as you do on me. And then you will forget Ned Fletcher, and you will leave.’
‘No, Ned! Never.’ She touched gentle fingers to his lips. ‘I have promised to stand by you, and I will honour that promise. I do love you. I trust you more than anyone on earth. Trust is a great bond, Ned. Don’t undervalue it.’
He looked doubtfully at her, misery in his every line, and she cast about for something that would prove how much she did trust him. Pushing down her skirts, she climbed from their makeshift couch and dragged Ned’s saddlebag towards her. ‘Look, Ned. I want to show you something before Alan gets back.’
Mystified, Ned rested up on one elbow and watched as she pulled out the bundle of wrappings that hid her statue.
‘Do you remember my asking you not to mention to Alan that I had the Stone Rose with me?’ He grunted assent, and shifted over on the cloak to make room for her as she came back with her effigy. ‘Open the door of the lantern, will you? Look.’ She made a slight twisting movement. As the base fell away from the Virgin, a small pouch shot out. Gwenn picked it up, opened it, and held her bunched fist under Ned’s nose.
Her fingers uncurled.
Ned’s mouth fell open, and he reached the gemstone. It was cold and hard, and heavier than it appeared, and it caught the feeble lantern light, transmuting it into the clear sparkle of a fall of water on a sunny day. ‘Is it real?’ he breathed. ‘Did you have this all along?’
‘It’s real. Grandmama gave it to me. The women of our family have held onto it for generations, as a secret security. To my knowledge you are the first of our menfolk ever to have been told about it.’
‘A man could set himself up for life with this,’ he said. Over the gem, their eyes met. Ned smiled, and dropped the jewel into her palm. ‘Your trust honours me.’
‘Now I’m wed to you, Ned, everything I have is yours. In law, this gem belongs to you. You could buy yourself a warhorse, a farm, anything.’
‘No. I...I couldn’t. It’s yours.’
‘It’s ours, Ned,’ she answered softly, ‘ours. We are going to share it.’
Ned leaned towards her and kissed her shoulder. ‘My loyal Gwenn.’
‘All I’m saying is that I won’t desert you. I trust you. No woman in my family has ever trusted their man with this secret. You are the first, the very first. Ned?’
‘Mmm?’ Brow cleared of wrinkles, Ned idly weighed a dishevelled braid in his hand. His eyes lingered on the gentle swell of his wife’s breasts.
‘I’m telling you about the gem, but I don’t want Alan to know.’
‘Alan wouldn’t steal your jewel,’ Ned said, as he put a hand round her neck and drew her towards him.
‘You’re too trusting,’ Gwenn spoke into his mouth. Surprised by her husband’s ardour, she allowed herself to be pushed back onto the cloak. She had not thought that Ned’s need would return so soon, but she supposed she ought to feel glad that she had reassured him. While Ned’s hand groped for her skirt, she tried not to sigh, and fixed her unseeing gaze on the black, soughing canopy.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The hospital portal opened again after the tenth hour, and Alan led Firebrand out, laden with the goods he had bought. Brother Raoul, the hospitaller who had admitted him, had made it clear that Alan was being permitted entry at this late hour purely on account of his connection with Duke Geoffrey. Brother Raoul had been happy to supply Alan with foodstuffs – bread, cheese, apples, roast beef wrapped in muslin, and milk and oats for the infant; but more than this he would not do. There would be no physician to look at Katarin until they reached Gwenn’s kin at Ploumanach. Gwenn would be disappointed, but God willing they would reach Ploumanach in a couple of days.
A stoneware bottle hanging from the saddlebow caught Alan’s eyes. Brother Raoul had put it there for him; it contained the baby’s precious milk, which Gwenn had insisted must be boiled, and it was swinging on a lengthy leather strap by his horse’s neck. Concerned that Firebrand might be irritated by the bottle and that the milk might be churned to butter by the time he got back to camp – would boiled milk make butter? – Alan paused to pack the bottle more securely in the bag behind his saddle. It was difficult to credit that the Captain of the Duke’s guard was worrying over a baby’s milk...
Behind him, the iron bo
lt of the hospital grated home. The moon had risen, bleaching the stones of the wall and the bridge across the river. Tightening the strap of his saddlebag, Alan’s ears picked up a furtive movement in the shadows beneath the bridge. Every nerve pricked into alertness.
He ran his gaze over the road and riverbank. There was no one on the wide highway save himself, and he could see nothing in that dark place under the bridge. Thinking it must be a vole or a rat scuffling to its home in the bank, Alan had one foot in his stirrup when he heard the noise again. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.
There was a splash, and someone caught their breath. Alan could not ignore it. It might be Malait, or another of de Roncier’s company, and for his own peace of mind he must investigate. Swinging himself up into Duke Geoffrey’s high, knight’s saddle, and feeling less vulnerable on horseback, he rode towards the bridge.
He drew rein by a clump of dock whose leaves gleamed like large white tongues in the moonlight. He could hear his own measured breathing; the creak of Firebrand’s harness; the wind playing in the trees along the edge of the Blavet; and another barely perceptible flurry which brought the hairs on his neck standing to attention. Without doubt, someone was skulking about under the bridge. He could think of no good reason for them to be there.
Where road and bridge joined, a reed-lined path curled left along the riverbank. Alan urged Firebrand down it. Slender rushes brushed his boots. In the shady coverts to the west, a fox barked. Fast on the heels of the bark, another stealthy scuffle came from beneath the bridge, together with more flustered, frightened breathing. Whoever was down there, it was not the Viking. Otto Malait didn’t have a timid bone in his body.
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