‘I won’t be staying,’ he said, and relief flooded through her. ‘I want information. I’m looking for a young woman, name of Gwenn Her...Fletcher. She’s Breton; small, very dark, and travelling with an armed soldier. They were last seen riding north along this road. Have you seen them?’

Berthe remembered the couple who had eaten at the alehouse earlier and gone on. A nice-looking couple, obviously recently wed and very much in love. She recalled the man calling the girl Gwenn. ‘Friends of yours?’ she asked.

The stranger gave Berthe another spine-chilling smile. ‘Oh, aye. We go way back.’

The alewife didn’t like the foreigner, and neither did she believe him. ‘I’ve not seen them,’ she said, firmly.

The dead eyes narrowed to slits. ‘They were riding this way.’

His gaze was boring holes in her, but Berthe was determined not to flinch. ‘I’ve not seen them,’ she repeated, and scooping up his coin, tossed it back to him. ‘Here, take this and be on your way.’

‘They were seen this morning.’

‘They may well have been on this road, sir.’ Berthe made her voice as casual and convincing as she could, for though she had Alfred dozing in the back, this man had succeeding in frightening her. ‘But they could have turned off, or they might have ridden past without stopping. Whatever, I’ve not seen them.’

Pouching his coin, the Norseman stood up and his stool toppled to the floor with a crack. Berthe winced. He was a tower of a man, no question of that. He caught her wrist and leaned towards her. ‘If I find you’ve lied to me, woman, I’ll come back and flay you alive.’

‘I’m not lying,’ Berthe said, steadily.

Walking to the door, the stranger paused and threw her a final, terrible smile. ‘I hope for your sake you’re not.’

***

Gwenn woke at dawn to a chorus of birdsong and a luxurious feeling of warmth and contentment. She had slept properly for the first time in over a week. She was lying on her side, and one of Alan’s arms was draped around her shoulders. His hand rested lightly, protectively, on her breast. She didn’t move for fear of waking him and breaking the spell of the moment. She breathed in his fragrance, happy to drowse, happy to remember the joy of giving herself to him. She had not known, had had no idea, that making love could be so astoundingly beautiful.

How was it that Alan who had not said a word about love had managed to loose a storm of sensation in her, while Ned who confessed his love daily, had left her almost unmoved? Gwenn beginning to accept that Alan found her as attractive as she found him. Was he beginning to care for her? Did he need her as much as she suspected she needed him? He was certainly looking after her. But no, she must not get carried away because he happened to be a good lover. Alan had wanted to come to England anyway, he was not here for her sake. She must remember who she was dealing with. This was Alan le Bret, a man who prided himself on his independence, a man totally unlike his cousin.

As Gwenn thought of Ned, the miserable knot in her stomach made itself felt once more. Her sense of wellbeing diminished. Making love with Alan had banished her unhappiness, but only for a time. She supposed she ought to be grateful for little blessings.

‘Gwenn?’

She turned and, gazing into dove-grey eyes that were sleepy and smiling and soft as the dawn, was attacked by a painful rush of longing. If only he would always look at her like that; as though he did love her, as though he did need her. Hastily, she pulled herself together. That tender look would vanish when he was fully awake. It was only there because they had been lovers last night. Besides, love brought pain. Alan had learned that years ago. What would it take to teach her the lesson?

‘Good morning,’ she smiled shyly, suddenly conscious of her lack of clothes and of their intimacy.

‘Regretting it already?’ he asked, quietly.

‘N...no.’

‘You liked it.’

It was a statement, but she took it as a question. ‘Aye. And so, I think, did you.’

Alan did not deny it, and let his fingers wander through the silky strands of her hair. Her mouth had a bruised look to it. He was tempted to kiss it and take the taste of her onto his tongue again. His loins throbbed, and inwardly he cursed. He had hoped to be free of the demon desire this morning. He stretched his arms above his head. They should be getting up, but he felt very lazy, very comfortable where he was. Forcing himself upright, he noticed Gwenn’s saddlebag lay where he had left it by the entrance. That had been careless, in view of what it contained, but fortunately it didn’t look as though it had been rifled while they slept. Perhaps a discussion about the contents would quell his ardour.

He told himself that he was not picking this topic because he wanted her to trust him. Far from it, he was trying to distract himself from the feel of the warm, relaxed thigh pressed against his. He was trying to prove that he didn’t want to roll over with her in his arms and make love to her just one more time...

Her eyes were on his mouth, and he wished they weren’t. It was very distracting. ‘Ned wasn’t carrying anything valuable in his pack was he?’ he opened, cautiously.

She jerked, and turned her eyes away. ‘V...valuable? No, I don’t think so. Like you, he took to carrying our money on his person. Why?’

Smiling, he pressed on. ‘And you? Do you keep things of worth in your bag?’

She sat up, cloak clutched to her breasts, and he couldn’t miss the apprehensive look she shot at the saddlebag, nor the lines of tension which appeared round her mouth. ‘Anything of worth? Whatever are you talking about?’

Alan’s smile died. She would not trust him. She was not going to confide in him. Doggedly, he continued, praying she would change her mind. ‘In France, at the tourney, I caught someone sneaking into the tent.’

‘You never told us.’

‘I saw no point. I thought I’d routed a thief.’ Alan patted the purse which hung round his neck. ‘You know I carry my valuables on me. I wondered if the man was after something that you or Ned were carrying.’

Her cheeks emptied of colour. ‘No,’ she said, very curt, and hunched her shoulder on him in that dismissive way of hers. ‘Cut-purses aren’t selective. They go for anything they can lay their hands on, don’t they? There’s no reason to assume your thief was after something in particular.’

‘That was what I thought, the first time. But when I found him hanging around the second time–’

‘Second time?’

Alan wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Gwenn had gone a shade whiter. Trust me, Gwenn. Please trust me. ‘Yes, he was lurking by the King’s cookhouse, eyeing my tent as if waiting his chance. I concluded he must be searching for something special.’

‘I can’t think what.’

‘Can’t you?’ Alan reached for her chin, and gently brought it round. Her eyes were hooded. Crushing an overpowering feeling of disappointment, he added, ‘I recognised the thief, the second time.’

‘Re...recognised him?’ She had forgotten to hold the cloak over her breasts and was twisting the material into a ball.

Fighting a yearning to slide his hands about her face and kiss her till she was senseless, Alan peeled his hand from her chin. Her lack of trust betrayed her lack of feeling for him, but the knowledge did not douse the fire she had lit in his veins. Where was his pride?

‘I’d seen him before, in Vannes.’ Alan gave her time to digest his announcement. ‘Our sneak thief was a pedlar who went by the name of Conan.’

Frantic fingers clutched his forearm. ‘Did you say Conan? From Vannes? Johanna, Philippe’s nurse, had a brother called Conan, a pedlar. Oh, God. I don’t understand.’ She shoved her hair over her shoulders.

Alan threw what pride he had left to the wind. A few, simple words, but it was the hardest thing he had ever done. ‘Gwenn, trust me. I’d like to help.’