‘No swearing, Gwenn.’

Gwenn choked down a bitter laugh. Did Izabel not realise? Something heavy smashed against the door, bowing the planks inwards. Yelping like a scalded cat, Raymond jumped backwards.

‘The shutters!’ Gwenn scrambled onto legs of jelly. She lurched for the window. Slamming the shutters, she dropped the bar in place, and plunged them into a shadow world.

‘What’s the matter?’ Izabel demanded. ‘What’s happening?’ And on another note, ‘Just look at the state of you!’

‘Oh, Grandmama...’ The hinges rattled, freezing the words on Gwenn’s tongue.

A white-lipped Raymond was wrestling with the linen press, which he dragged in front of the door. ‘That should hold them for a while.’ He attempted a smile, but the green eyes that were his legacy from his mother were not warmed by it.

‘What have I done?’ Gwenn groaned, as the reality of their plight dawned on her. Was the mob out at the back too? If so, they were caught like rats in a trap. ‘Sweet heaven, I led them here! I’ve brought them home!’

A missile crashed against a shutter. A rock? A stave?

Izabel’s face was still, her eyes bulged as she watched the shutter bounce under the impact of another blow. ‘Who, dear? Who have you brought home? Gwenn, what have you done?’

‘Done! Blood of Christ, Grandmère, Gwenn’s done nothing!’ Raymond exploded. ‘It’s that prattling priest who’s to blame!’

‘I brought them here!’

Stiffly, for her bones ached like the plague, Izabel went to put her arm around her granddaughter. ‘Oh, Gwenn, why did you go out alone? I told you – why, you’re shaking.’

Gulping down a sob, Gwenn did her best to explain.

Izabel listened, and the blood drained steadily from her withered cheeks as Gwenn’s tale drew to its appalling conclusion.

‘But why should anyone want you stoned?’

‘They want to frighten me, Maman,’ Yolande said, coming down the stairs. Katarin was balanced on one hip.

‘You, Mama?’ This from Raymond.

Nodding, Yolande set her youngest down and put a gentle forefinger to the congealing blood on her son’s temple. She looked immeasurably sad.

‘But why, Mama?’

A man had followed Yolande downstairs. He stood in the doorway listening. The man was upstanding. He had a young-looking body, fit and strong, but the lines around his eyes and the grey strands which threaded through both hair and moustache betrayed him to be in his early forties. ‘Your kinsman, Count François de Roncier’s been sowing seeds, if I judge it aright,’ he said tersely.

Gwenn’s head shot up, and she stared into dark brown eyes that mirrored her own. The eyes were angry, burning eyes, like a banked-down fire which was likely to flare up at the slightest draught. ‘Sir Jean!’ Climbing to her feet, Gwenn made a valiant attempt to curtsy, her legs wobbling. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I...I didn’t mean to bring them here.’

Jean St Clair put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders and smiled gently at her. ‘Don’t apologise, Gwenn. Where else would you come but to your home?’

Gwenn realised his fury was not directed at her but at those who might have harmed her, and at himself for not foreseeing this. It had gone ominously quiet in the street.

‘Shouldn’t they have got in by now, sir? I thought they would have had the door down in no time, they were baying for blood. What’s keeping them?’

The knight took Gwenn’s elbow and steered her to the window. When he reached for the shutter, she flinched and strained back. ‘All’s well, Gwenn,’ he soothed, and flung back the shutter. ‘I have men out there. Look. No one’s going to break in.’

Four men-at-arms wearing St Clair’s red and green colours ranged across the street. Their tunics might be shamefully moth-eaten, the dyes might be faded, but the March sunlight sparkled on carefully polished steel. Facing them, at a distance of not more than two yards, was the crowd. They were silent, and now that they had been robbed of their prey, they looked sullen. The heat had run out of them like water from a sieve. Some stood awkwardly, guilt etched into their features, while others sneaked away, shamefaced.

‘See, Gwenn, how four can hold back an army,’ St Clair said with a tight little smile.

Yolande came across and took her daughter in her arms. ‘It’s over. Over and done with.’

‘Is it, ma mère?’ Raymond murmured.

Yolande eyed Izabel. ‘Maman, please take the children upstairs. There’s water in the ewer. They’ve mud in their hair, and Raymond’s cheek needs attending.’

‘It’s not mud, Mama,’ Raymond said. ‘Can’t you smell it? It’s fish entrails and horse-sh–’

Izabel’s age-spotted fingers stopped his mouth. ‘Hush, Raymond. Your mother’s in the right. You look like a pair of beggars. Upstairs with you both.’ She held her hand to Katarin, and the child scurried towards her.

Raymond thrust out a lip above which a fuzz of adolescent hair was evident. ‘I’m not a child. I’m fifteen.’ Nonetheless he permitted his grandmother to shepherd him towards the stairs. Gwenn followed.

Yolande kept up the calm pretence until her mother and children were out of earshot. ‘How could you, Jean? How could you? You keep your ears to the ground. You must have got wind of what de Roncier was planning. You know what Gwenn’s like. Why did you not warn me to keep a particularly sharp eye on her?’

Jean flushed. ‘Father Jerome keeps a sword where other men keep their tongues. I did warn you–’

‘Warn me?’ Yolande’s voice cracked. ‘All you said was that if you were me you wouldn’t let her fill her ears with the monk’s nonsense. You didn’t tell me our daughter would be risking her life if she ventured onto the streets!’

Jean moved towards Yolande, hand outstretched. ‘Yolande, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t realise the extent–’

Yolande batted the hand away. ‘Liar! You knew. You suspected something was going to happen. Why else bring your men today?’ She read her lover’s silence as guilt. ‘Holy Mother, you did know!’

‘No. No. I misread the signs.’

Yolande took a pace or two round the chamber while she fought for calm. ‘We shall have to leave.’

‘Eh?’

‘Leave.’

‘But Yolande–’

She spun round, green skirts swirling. ‘I insist, Jean. The sooner the better. I won’t stay in a town where the people terrorise thirteen-year-old girls!’ Glaring at the knight, and gripped with a clear, cold fury, Yolande wondered whether she could persuade him to take them to his manor at Kermaria, a small hamlet to the west of Vannes. She had put up with the little town house while her family had been safe, but now that the Benedictine had infected all Vannes with virtue, that had changed. She swallowed down her bile, wise enough to realise that she did not want Jean on the defensive. An enraged man never gave a woman anything. ‘I’ve had enough of this life,’ she said, testing the waters. ‘You have to choose.’

‘Choose?’

Yolande ground her teeth. Those innocent brown eyes looked warm as melted honey, but they didn’t blind her for a moment. Her lover was playing for time. ‘You know what I mean. If you don’t decide soon, by the Rood I’ll decide for you!’ She had always been generous with her love, never withholding an ounce of it from Jean, despite the fact that he had never married her as he had promised. It was not that Yolande questioned his love for her. No, she was certain of that, but she had never known whether his love was out-ranked by his ambition. It was vaulting ambition that had kept him from marrying her all these years. She must play the concubine while he affected to chase after a Frenchwoman. He had it all planned out. He had maintained that he never intended to marry Louise Foucard and Yolande had believed him. He would never have married the Foucard woman, not while marrying Yolande Herevi might bring him better gains. If Izabel’s old claim to the family lands was ever ratified, Yolande Herevi would be worth her weight in gold. As ever, Jean kept his feet in two camps.