The Norseman’s neck was white and glistening with sweat. She raised the axe. She sent it chopping down, but with a disgusted moan she twisted it at the last second, so the flat of the blade and not the edge cracked against his skull. He grunted softly and dropped like a stone, right over Alan.

The axe fell to the grass. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to kill him, but God grant she had knocked him into the next century. She had bought a little time.

Her knees softened. She fell to the ground, heaved the Viking off Alan, and shook Alan. ‘Alan?’ Alan’s head rolled. Keeping it steady, she gripped his arm. ‘Alan? Wake up!’ His cheeks were grey, and his lips pale. ‘Alan.’ Not a movement. She shook him less gently. ‘Alan! Oh, God, not Alan too. Please, God, not Alan.’

She drew his head onto her knees. Blood. Her pulse pounded. His blood was everywhere. Tenderly parting the sweat-streaked hair, she found its source, a great gash in his skull. He had cracked his head on a stone when he fell. Glancing at the rich turf, she found the culprit at once. The Stone Rose smiled innocently up at her from the spot where a moment ago Alan’s head had lain. The pink granite bore telltale traces of blood.

Cold as ice, she scrabbled for his pulse and failed to find it. She was seized with the most hideous conviction. The statue had killed Alan, as it killed everyone she ever loved. The Stone Rose had killed Alan. In a moment she became a madwoman. ‘No! No! You shall not have him! You shall not. Wake up, Alan. I need you! You can’t die, you’re a devil, and devils don’t die!’

Frenzied, raging, she pushed him off her knees, pressing her head to the torn tunic to hear his heartbeat. But her ears were filled with the frantic drumming of her own racing heart. Wildly, she clutched his shoulders, but he lay on the meadow like a corpse. ‘Alan? Alan?’ She pressed her face against the bloody tunic. ‘Alan,’ she murmured into the warmth of his chest, ‘I need you. Don’t leave me.’

Alan coughed, and drew in a convulsive lungful of air.

Gwenn flew upright. The grey eyes were open and focused on her. Shuddering, she touched his cheek. His sinful mouth drew up at one side. He started, shot up, glanced at the prone figure and groped for his sword. ‘Malait?’

‘Out cold,’ Gwenn said, lips curving with joy. He was alive. Whole, and alive.

Alan nudged the motionless body, relaxed, and sat back on his haunches. He rubbed the back of his head. ‘I’m either dreaming, or dead. You’d never look at me like that if I were alive. Isn’t that a look a knight’s daughter ought to reserve for her Perfect Knight? I must be dead.’

‘No,’ Gwenn bit her lip to dim her smile, she knew it was brilliant, ‘you’re not dead. Though for a moment I feared you were.’

A dark brow arched. ‘Feared?’

‘Aye. I thought the statue had claimed you, as it claims everyone I love.’

‘Love?’ Alan’s strong voice was heartrendingly uncertain. He caught her chin in a fierce grip. ‘You love me?’

She had no words, but she nodded. His eyes were that beautiful dove-grey, as they had been that morning after they had first made love.

‘Me? A landless mercenary? A bastard?’

‘That last is my title too,’ she reminded him shakily.

He gave Gwenn another of those dear, crooked smiles, and drew her to him. ‘Oh, God.’ He grimaced. ‘My head.’

Gwenn drew back. He had her hand in a bruising grip, but she made no complaint.

‘What hit me?’

‘Our Lady.’

‘Our Lady?’ It was a moment before he caught up with her. ‘Oh, you mean that cursed statue.’

‘Cursed is the right word. It is cursed. She has killed so many, and I thought she’d done for you too. I was going to hurl it into the river when he,’ she indicated Otto, ‘came upon me.’

Alan grunted, and released her. Turning the Viking onto his back, he examined him. ‘Did you hit him?’

‘Aye, with the flat of his axe.’

Alan frowned, and regarded her sombrely. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Dead? Merciful Heaven, you mean I–?’

‘I doubt it was your blow. That could only have stunned him. It was this.’ He pointed at the sticky bloodstain darkening the Norseman’s left sleeve. ‘I must have hit an artery. He bled to death.’

Staggering to his feet, Alan wiped his sword on the Viking’s chausses. Catching Gwenn’s gaze on him and reading censure in it, he caught his bottom lip. ‘You think me callous? You mustn’t delude yourself about me. I’m not like your Ned.’

Gwenn smiled. ‘I know.’ Then, seeing Alan was white as whey and swaying on his feet, she took his arm. ‘What do we do about him?’ She pointed at Otto’s body.

‘Ride to the abbey and inform the White Canons what has happened on their land. They’ll help us deal with it.’

‘Come on, then. To the abbey it is. Let me help you mount.’

Alan’s hand went around her waist. ‘Ride with me? Please?’

‘Yes.’

***

The sun was at its height by the time Alan and Gwenn had finished with their explanations and the body had been brought from the riverbank. For the time being they were free to return to Sword Point, though they had both sworn to attend the next court session at the castle, where they would have to repeat their explanations at a formal enquiry held by the sheriff.

Alan held Gwenn firmly in one hand, the other was hooked round Firebrand’s reins. On foot, they walked under the arch in the porter’s lodge and started up the hill.

‘That’s over, for a while anyway,’ Alan said.

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think we need concern ourselves with the inquest. Malait’s a stranger here, and though I’ve been away, the people here trust me.’ Alan shot Gwenn a sideways glance. ‘I expect it surprises you to hear that people trust me.’

‘It doesn’t surprise me.’ And it didn’t, not any more. That morning, in a moment of blind panic, when Gwenn had seen Malait charging towards her and hadn’t time to think, she had mistrusted him. But now she was calm and could see clearly. She could trust Alan.

‘No? Gwenn,’ Alan swallowed and, keeping his gaze on the road, spoke in a rapid undertone, ‘you saw me at my lowest at Locmariaquer. I’d never tried to steal anything before, or since.’

‘Alan, you don’t have to tell me that. I know that, now.’

Alan’s head came up, and his eyes lit up. ‘You do?’

Gwenn nodded, conscious of a warm upsurge of happiness. ‘I love you, Alan.’

His hand gripped hers like a vice. ‘Gwenn, can you see yourself living above the forge in Richmond?’

‘I can, if you are there.’

‘I’ll never be one of your chivalrous knights.’

‘I know. You don’t have a chivalrous bone in your body,’ Gwenn laughed, on a note of pure delight, and flung her arms about his waist to hug him. ‘But you are alive, Alan, and I love you. And that is what counts.’

Alan pushed her back against the whorled bark of an oak, threw Firebrand’s reins over a branch, and pressed his body to hers. He put his hands either side of her face. In expectation of his kiss, Gwenn closed her eyes.

He kept her waiting. ‘I’ve no land,’ he said, lips so near Gwenn’s she could feel the heat of them. ‘I work to live. If we stay in England, it will be hard. I cannot be a mercenary in England. I’ve a mind to apprentice myself to my stepfather and learn a different trade.’

She opened her eyes and smiled. ‘You’ll make the most ancient and unlikely apprentice in Christendom.’

‘Ivon taught me much as a lad. I’ll learn the rest quickly.’

‘I’m sure of it.’ His lips moved to hers.

She held him off. ‘Wait. Alan, it’s best if you know everything. My grandmother did have a gemstone, and I have it.’ Gwenn explained it all, and when she had done, Alan’s breath had stopped. He stroked back a strand of her hair. ‘Did you hear me, Alan? I’ve money and the gem–’

She got no further. With an inarticulate murmur, Alan buried his face in her hair. ‘Thank God,’ he said, in a muffled voice. ‘At last I believe you trust me.’