But this night, Marie had other matters on her mind. ‘Well, François? Have you got rid of them?’

‘They’ll be gone soon.’ François’ grin was that of a contented man. ‘Father Jerome created quite a storm.’

‘I feared he might,’ Marie acknowledged, adding a crease to her brow. ‘I mislike him, but there’s no doubting his genius with words.’

‘He’s dangerous.’ François shook his head, reflectively. ‘You should have heard him. He’s headier than any wine I’ve ever tasted. He had the townsfolk in the palm of his hand, itching to cleanse every alley in the place. And men who had lain with a whore not an hour before were fighting among themselves to be the first to serve his will.’

‘But did they frighten them?’ Marie was half afraid of what the answer might be. Izabel Herevi was her sister, and mad though she was... ‘It was them you were set on frightening.’

‘We had a stroke of luck. The girl was in the church.’

‘With Iz–’ Marie broke off, recollecting in time the presence of her maid. The girl’s French was virtually non-existent, but it was better to say no names out loud lest they were repeated to Eleanor or Arlette who had been kept in ignorance of their lost relations. ‘With the old woman?’

‘No, she was alone.’

Marie hissed on an indrawn breath. ‘And?’

François tramped to the fire and spread his hands before the blaze. ‘She led the mob straight to the house. It couldn’t have gone better.’

Marie clenched her stick. ‘They were not hurt?’

Her son’s russet brows came together. ‘Mother, we’ve been through all this. Who are they to threaten me? Would you have me play the woman’s role? I’ll not wait upon events.’

‘Robert never lifted a finger against her.’

‘No, and you know why that was, don’t you?’

Marie reeled back as though she’d been struck in the face. ‘François, how could you?’

‘I’m sorry, ma mère, but it’s the truth. Father never lifted a finger against Izabel Herevi because he loved her. She jilted him, but still he loved her.’ Callously, François rubbed salt into a wound that he knew had never healed in over thirty years. ‘Face it, Maman. Your Robert is dead, and I am Count now. I’m not a man to leave loose ends lying about. That land is mine, and I will be rid of them, whatever the cost.’

Marie sank onto a bench and rested her back against the table. ‘Whatever the cost?’

‘Aye. I never trusted St Clair for all that he was courting the Foucard woman. He’s a jumped-up knight with eyes on my rights. I’ll teach him to covet the possessions of his betters.’

‘But they’re family, François.’ Marie thought the years had turned her to rock, but her son’s ruthlessness made her shrink. ‘Izabel’s your aunt!’

‘Enough, madame.’

Gripping her stick, Marie jerked her head furiously in Lena’s direction. She’d not be belittled before a peasant trollop, language barrier or no. ‘Lena!’

‘My lady?’

‘Go and prepare me a posset, will you?’

‘Aye, my lady. Would you like cinnamon or cl–’

‘Anything, anything.’ An imperious wave sent the girl scurrying to the door. ‘Just see that it’s hot. Take it to my chamber and wait for me there.’

‘Aye, my lady.’ Lena curtsied and went out.

‘Now, ma mère, where were we?’ the Count asked.

‘I think you were talking murder.’

The red-bristled chin lifted. ‘Not murder, politics. I’ll have them out of Vannes.’

‘And if they won’t go?’

‘They’ll go.’

Marie impaled her son with her eyes. ‘I want no killing.’

‘And if St Clair marries his slut?’

The Countess gave a strained, incredulous laugh. ‘Knights don’t marry their mistresses. St Clair isn’t witless. It would be social suicide. Think of the potential allies he’d lose.’

François stumped across the room to the side-board where red wine from Poitou was glowing in a costly glass decanter imported from the East. Beside it, on a pewter tray, waited a set of matching goblets. François lifted a glass and poured himself a measure. Cupping the bowl of the glass in his hands, he swirled the liquid round. The wine was better warmed.

Turning round to rest her arms on the table, Marie gazed at the saints carved round the sides of her grandaughter’s box, lost in her memories. ‘Who would have thought that my sister’s infatuation with a squire would have led to this?’

‘Forget Izabel, ma mère, she’s mad. She must be to have married a squire when she should have married a count.’

Marie swallowed and idly drew Arlette’s puzzle box towards her. ‘It was a dreadful time. Robert was betrothed to Izabel, but it was I who loved him. And all along Izabel had eyes for one man – Gwionn Herevi.’ Drawing a shaky breath, the dark eyes lifted to meet her son’s. They were steady eyes, proud eyes. ‘Do you think it was easy living with your father all those years, knowing I was never more than second best?’

‘Father loved you,’ François said, wishing now to make amends for his earlier wounding statement.

Marie made a negative gesture. ‘No, François, what you said was no less than the truth. Robert loved Izabel.’

‘Oh, Christ, Mother, I’m sorry for what I said. I did not mean... I was angry. I don’t like being questioned.’

Slowly Marie shook her head. ‘I was never any more than a clause in a contract Robert felt bound to honour. He could not have my elder sister, but he had made an agreement with my family and being an honourable man, he kept it. He married me in Izabel’s place. And I loved him so much. I was glad to be his wife, for I’d always adored him. I wanted him to profit by his alliance with me. When our brother died and Izabel as the eldest daughter should have inherited, I thought it fitting that Robert should have her lands when she never claimed them. I didn’t want him to have married me for nothing.’

‘No, not for nothing. I’m certain he–’

‘Came to love me for my own sweet self?’

François stared hard at the thin line that was his mother’s mouth. ‘As it happens, yes. I’m sure Father did come to love you. Besides, you did not go to him empty-handed. You brought your own dowry.’

Marie’s harsh laugh cut in. ‘Aye, but next to the de Wirce patrimony, my dowry was a paltry thing. I wanted to give Robert more. And now that your father is gone, those lands–’

‘Are mine. And I aim to keep them.’

Marie sighed, tapping her fingers on Arlette’s box. She had mixed feelings about her sister, but she did not want Izabel and her family murdered. Jealousy had twisted her emotions, and more than once in the past she had wished Izabel dead, but she had never meant it. ‘You know, François,’ she leaned her chin on her hand, ‘you’re wasting effort on what in reality is a minor matter. They’re small game.’

A scowl scored deep furrows in François’ forehead. ‘Small? I must be sure, ma mère, so when Eleanor bears me a son–’

‘Naturally,’ Marie agreed. Now was not the time to dispute Eleanor’s depressing lack of fertility. She picked up the puzzle box. When it was new it had kept Arlette amused for hours. It had come back from the Lebanon as part of a crusader’s booty; and it had probably been designed to be a reliquary box. It opened only when three of the Saints haloes were depressed at the same time. ‘But, consider, François, if we consult with our peers, I think you might find we have the law on our side. Izabel was in default, and we...you are in possession.’ A peek at her son’s disgruntled face told her that he was not won over. A man of action, words never counted for much with him.

‘Mother, don’t think I’ll balk at acting without your support.’

‘I don’t,’ Marie admitted tersely. ‘I don’t want a whelp of St Clair’s lording it over us on our holdings any more than you do.’

The hazel eyes gleamed. ‘Today was calculated to scare them off, once and for all.’

Marie bent her head and applied pressure to three of the carved haloes. Nothing happened. It was a clever toy. She tried another combination. ‘What will you do next?’