[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.As she passed the outhouse where Dancer had been hastily stabled, her horse greeted her with a friendly whinny, and such was Gwenn’s state of mind that the familiar sound set her heart thudding.Clutching the statue, she pressed on, working her way round the worm-eaten farm buildings and onto the track.Her mind was a confusion of fears and wishes.Panting, she checked the path which cut across the dale to the river.It was empty.High in the blue heavens, so high she could not see them, skylarks sang.Closer to earth, a flock of lapwings tumbled into view, vying with each other in athletic, aerobatic displays.Gwenn hurried on, keeping the Stone Rose close to her breast.The mysterious horseman who had ridden in from Brittany could be a messenger from the Duchess as Agnes had suggested, but Gwenn did not think so.If the horseman was fair as an angel and as fierce as St Michael, he sounded very like de Roncier’s Viking captain.Was he after the gem? Did all of Brittany know her secret? When Alan had questioned her about the Stone Rose, Gwenn suspected he knew.But he had left her with Agnes and the gemstone had remained in her keeping, and Gwenn had concluded that he knew nothing.If only he had come back to visit her lately, she could have had it out with him.But she had not set eyes on him since he left for Richmond.His neglect was a clear signal of his lack of feeling for her.Agnes believed she should trust him.But Agnes was Alan’s aunt – she looked to see the best in her sister’s son.Gwenn stumbled towards the river.If only Alan was more like Ned, who was, even without the dubbing ceremony, more the perfect knight than any man she’d known.A couple of bow shots ahead, Gwenn could see beeches and ash trees stretching over the Swale.She could hear the water brawling over the rocky bed as it surged through the dale towards the gully where the waterfall bubbled and frothed like so much brown ale.Someone gave a shout, and she whirled round.A lone horseman on a great grey was cutting across the pasture; the horse’s hoofs were gouging scoops of emerald turf and throwing them high in the air.Her mouth went dry.It was not Firebrand, but at this distance Gwenn was unable to make out whether the horseman was fair or dark.Sunlight sparkled on a shiny helmet.Her heart dropped to her belly.A long, fair beard tumbled across a wide, mail-clad chest and the canon’s words came back to her.Fair as an angel and fierce as St Michael.Stricken with panic, she whirled towards the river, desperate for somewhere to hide, but she would never reach the beech trees in time.She could not outrun that brute of a horse.She halted, turned, and stood her ground.The worst the Viking could do was kill her, and death no longer frightened her, for out of her spinning thoughts one single strand stood stark and clear.The worst had already happened.Since Gwenn’s arrival, Agnes had expressed a desire to live out the first few days of her grief quietly.Apart from Gwenn’s lonely dawn rides, they had only left the farm to go to Easby village, where they had conversed with the White Canons, no one else.To Gwenn’s knowledge, the only person in Richmond to know she was lodged at Sword Point was Alan; and the only way the Norseman could have found her so quickly after seeing the White Canon was if Alan had betrayed her.Alan must have betrayed her.Set against this, nothing was important; not her life, not even – may God forgive her – the life of the babe in her belly.Gwenn had wanted to trust Alan, had wanted him to be an honourable man.So much for her dreams.She loved a ruthless bastard of a man and he had betrayed her.Would the Norseman torture her to find out where she had put the gemstone? Would he share the proceeds with Alan?The horse, a stallion, thundered up to her.The Viking hauled on his reins, and the beast came to a shuddering halt.Hot, horsey breath fanned her face.‘Well met, Mistress Fletcher,’ Otto Malait flung himself to the ground and dived at her throat.‘I’ve been scouring all England for you.’***Outside Sword Point Farm, Alan dismounted gingerly, groaning in relief when his feet touched firm ground.He had a hangover, and every step of the road from Richmond had set a hammer beating on the anvil of his brain.He tethered Firebrand to a bay tree in his aunt’s overgrown herb garden.The door was ajar.He rapped his knuckles on it, and the noise made him flinch.His nerves were shredded that morning, and he only had himself to blame.He had run into old drinking companions the evening before and had been drawn into lengthy reminiscences around the forge with his friends and his stepfather.He and Ivon were fully reconciled, and during the course of the evening, much ale had been drunk, and much wine.‘It’s the combination that’s the killer,’ Alan muttered to himself, angry at his own stupidity.There was no response from the farmhouse.Agnes was growing deaf.Wincing, Alan knocked once more, and raised his voice, ‘Agnes? Gwenn?’ His throat was as gritty as a mason’s file.‘In here, Alan.Come straight in.’Agnes was climbing painstakingly down the stairs from the loft.Alan helped her down the last few rungs.‘I thought you moved your bed downstairs because you find the stairs a trial.’Agnes smiled.‘I do find them a trial.’Alan led his aunt to the trestle and pulled out a bench for her.‘You should ask Gwenn if you need something down from the loft.Where is she?’‘Gone to the river.Didn’t you spot her from the road?’‘No.’ Alan rubbed sore eyes.‘I can hardly see out this morning.’‘Good night, was it, nephew?’Alan groaned, sank onto the bench, and closed his eyes.‘Alan, I think you should go and see if Gwenn is safe.’Weary grey eyes peered past hooded lids.‘Why shouldn’t Gwenn be safe? She’s only gone to the river.’‘No, Alan.I think you should go.Something has happened.It’s connected with that blessed statue.She rushed in here talking about messengers from Normandy.’Her nephew’s head shot up.‘Messengers from Normandy? Who?’‘I’ve no idea.’Alan caught her wrist.‘Think, Aunt, exactly what did she say?’‘A White Canon told her a horseman rode in from Dieppe, someone she knew in Vannes.He has been asking questions.Gwenn took the figurine to the river and.Alan?’The door cracked against its frame, and seeing that she was speaking to an empty room, Agnes shook her head and smiled.Charging into the yard, Alan remembered his sword.In his befuddled state that morning, he had jammed it under his pack at the back of the saddle.Cursing the few seconds’ delay, he dragged it out, buckled it into place, and flung himself on Firebrand.The farmhouse was surrounded with a split-rail fence to keep the White Canons’ sheep from the cottage garden, and though it was down in places, his route was barred by a gate.Alan dug in his spurs.The courser cleared the gate with ease, and then they were galloping over Swaledale’s springy turf, noses pointed to the river.The greensward sloped gently away from them.At the bottom, in front of the trees, two figures were struggling.A hulking great warhorse with its reins slack about its head placidly cropped the grass.It was the horse that betrayed to Alan the identity of the mysterious visitor from Normandy.The animal was past its best, a lanky grey, long in the bone, and he recognised it.Otto Malait favoured that horse [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]