‘A horseman rode into the castle last night,’ Gwenn said, voice trembling. ‘He’s come straight from Normandy.’
Heaving up on her pillow, Agnes squinted through the gloom at her daughter-in-law. ‘He’s come, no doubt, with a letter from Duchess Constance.’
Agnes had been maid to Duchess Constance before the Duchess had married the King’s son, and now she was her pensioner.
Gwenn drew near to the bed and put both hands to her forehead, clenching her fists so the white bones in her knuckles showed. ‘No. No. I think not, he sounds like a mercenary I knew in Vannes. He must have heard about the statue – he wants the gem.’ Perspiration dampened her temples. ‘And to think I thought it was over. Oh, Agnes, I prayed we’d left all that behind us. I thought a new land would mean a fresh start. That statue will be our deaths, I know it will.’
Gwenn was only sixteen, but at that moment she looked sixty. She was Ned’s wife, and petite though she was, she was carrying his child. In Ned’s absence, it was Agnes’s place to offer her advice. Agnes thought quickly. ‘You could get rid of it.’
‘Rid of it?’ The great, brown eyes were blank.
‘Yes.’
‘But that would be...’ Gwenn trailed off, chewing a nail with desperate savagery.
‘Sacrilege?’ Agnes could see that her daughter-in-law was terrified. There were fine lines around her eyes and mouth that had not been there yesterday. Agnes pulled Gwenn’s finger from her mouth. ‘Don’t do that.’
Gwenn started, jumpy as a hare, and curled her fingers into a fist. ‘Sorry. But would getting rid of the Stone Rose really help? You said yourself – it’s only a statue. Can a statue of the Blessed Virgin harm anyone?’
‘Gwenn, in your heart you know the statue is not the problem. It’s the gemstone that’s attracting trouble.’
‘I’ve come to loathe the Stone Rose.’
‘I can see that. It’s associated with past miseries. But don’t let a lump of pink granite,’ Agnes allowed a sneer to enter her voice, for it would do Gwenn no harm to realise her icon could be mocked, ‘colour your life. It has become an obsession, and it’s blinding you to the real problem, which is the diamond.’ Agnes could not accept that in itself the Stone Rose was evil. But it was Gwenn’s belief that counted, and if Gwenn believed it evil, the statue had best be destroyed.
Gwenn went cold as she thought about it, as she numbered her sorrows. Her eyes skated about over the beaten earth floor, and her mind sought for another way out. She had no option but to hide the gem and get rid of the statue, for while she kept it she was a marked woman, potential prey for every mercenary who had ever heard about the Stone Rose and what it was meant to contain.
She gripped Agnes’s arm. ‘And what about Alan? What do I tell him when he discovers a horseman has been creeping around, asking questions? Do I tell him about the gem? Dare I put it in Alan’s keeping? What if he–?’
‘I think, Gwenn, you should trust Alan.’
Gwenn’s laugh was wild and bitter. ‘Trust Alan? Are your wits addled?’
‘I am his aunt, Gwenn. Never forget that,’ Agnes said. Alan was due a measure of loyalty. And while Agnes knew her nephew had done more than his share of evil, she could not help loving him. And so, she believed, did Gwenn. This would be a test for Gwenn as much as for Alan, but Gwenn was yet to realise this.
Agnes was wrong. Gwenn had realised. Dropping her eyes, she murmured, ‘My apologies.’ She sat silently for a space, thinking. She wanted to trust Alan. She wanted him to love her. But she had never been able to put out of her mind the fact that he had once attempted to take the diamond. If he knew she had it, would he still covet it? Would he affect to love her for it? Did she love Alan enough to trust him, unreservedly? She sucked in a breath, opened her eyes fully, and gave Agnes a direct look. ‘I’ll hide the gem and take the statue to the river.’
‘Aye.’
‘And I’ll take the gamble with Alan. Win all, or lose all.’
Agnes thought it a shame that Gwenn realised how much hung in the balance, for her decision was difficult enough without concerning herself over Alan. Agnes could not help her there. Gwenn had put her finger on it. It was a risk. But if her gamble paid off...
‘At least I’ll know where his loyalties lie,’ Gwenn said, steadily. She squared her shoulders. ‘The waiting will be over. I’ll get rid of it, Agnes, and tell Alan everything. It’s the only thing to do. Then there will be no more wondering. It might even be a relief.’ She moved swiftly to the door.
‘God speed.’ Agnes blessed her with the sign of the cross.
The latch clicked. Light streamed briefly into the farm’s one-roomed cottage and then all was plunged into dimness as the door closed.
***
Agnes sat, patiently waiting for Gwenn to return. She thought about her daughter-in-law.
Agnes no longer had the vigour of her youth and until Gwenn had arrived at Sword Point, she had been lonely. She thought she was dying. Unlike Gwenn, who had her life in front of her, Agnes was not afraid of death. But Gwenn’s arrival had given her something to live for. She liked Gwenn. Ned had proved himself a good judge of character when he chose her to be his wife. Agnes looked forward to meeting her grandchild. The Grim Reaper would come for her soon, but in the meantime she could fill her last days cobbling together some baby linen. Agnes had once sewed court dresses for a duchess, but this simple task was all her weakened eyes could manage now. While she waited for the final sleep to claim her, she would watch her grandchild grow and die content.
***
In the night, the Yorkshire dale had been refreshed with rain. Now the sun was climbing and the meadow grasses shone lush and green. Sheep ambled across the pastures below Sword Point, fluffy white blobs grazing on the rich grasses like slow-moving clouds drifting across a rain-washed sky. While the landscape was beautiful, the farm’s buildings and outhouses were not. They had not been maintained since Ned’s father had died. A mournful air of neglect hung over the place.
Having decided to rid herself of the statue and the evil that had dogged her for years, Gwenn hooked up her skirts and dashed along the pathway which ran between two wooden farm buildings. She stopped at the tall oak whose foreshortened shadow pointed up the hill, pausing only to twist the walnut base from the statue and thrust the pouch deep within a fork of the oak’s spreading roots. She had been quick to learn her way about Sword Point, and headed straight for the River Swale. 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.