heard he’s faithful to her.’
Dropping the poker against the iron firedogs with a clang, Count François let out an ugly laugh. ‘The woman’s his harlot, le Bret, his harlot. What man would risk starting a war – and that’s what it would amount to – over a whore?’
Alan looked unconvinced.
‘Remember that half pound of silver, Captain. Can you think of an easier way of earning it?’
Alan couldn’t.
‘All you have to do is see them off.’ The Count raised a russet brow and slapped Alan on the back with a false bonhomie that jarred more than the gesture. ‘Think of it, Captain. Think of the girls...’
‘I’ve better uses for money than to waste it on whores,’ Alan declared flatly. ‘But your offer is tempting.’ Half a pound of silver, plus his pay, was a fortune to a mercenary. He could live off the coined silver for a long time, but what counted most was that de Roncier’s money would give him the freedom to choose a better master. Two years ago, when he had joined de Roncier’s troop, he and Ned had been desperate. He’d have signed his soul to anyone. But with English minted pennies swelling his purse, he’d be rich enough to pick and choose.
‘You’ll do it?’ de Roncier asked. ‘I’ll pay you tomorrow, when it’s over. I’m taking a strongbox to the tavern. I’ll dole out there, when I hear they’ve...gone.’
‘And my troop?’
‘Aye, fry your eyes, I’ll pay your troop too.’
‘I’ll do it.’ And, saluting the man who would be his lord only until the sun set the following night, Alan marched briskly from the solar.
François let his breath go on a sigh. Captain le Bret was an awkward man, and he seemed to have misjudged him. At times the fellow was as hard as tempered steel, but at other times...
Absently François refilled his glass. Le Bret was an enigma. But one thing was clear, he was single-minded; he had come in to get his back pay, and he had left with exactly what he came for – and more. ‘He’s an opportunist,’ François murmured, ‘and as tough as they come.’
He sipped his wine and, grimacing, deposited the glass on the pewter tray. The bottle had been open to the air too long; the contents had soured, and set his teeth on edge. Heading for his bed and his wife, he wondered how long Alan le Bret had been stationed outside the solar door. How much had he heard? There was no telling, but perhaps it would be prudent to despatch Malait with him on the morrow. François nodded to himself. He would charge the Norseman with finding the statue his mother coveted. He need make no mention of the gem. One could not trust routiers. The less they knew, the better.
Wondering if Eleanor would be asleep, François mounted the spiral stairs to his turret bedchamber.
Chapter Six
T he bottom of the fishing boat was wet with a combination of dew and seawater that soaked through cloak and breeches to Raymond’s bones. He had counted on being able to sleep on the pre-dawn trip across the bay, but his clothes were too damp, he felt cold, and to add to his miseries the Small Sea was choppy and the rocking motion of the boat gave him
mal de mer
.
‘How much longer, Edouarz?’ Raymond groaned, lying back so he could try counting stars and forget his nausea.
The closed lantern attached to the mast let out a few shreds of light – just enough to reach the face of the man at the tiller, the boat’s owner. Edouarz glanced briefly at his passenger, and bit back a grin on seeing the boy’s tight lips and greenish tinge. He tipped his head back to examine the sail of his tiny vessel. The patched canvas bellied out with the wind. ‘Half an hour, maybe longer.’
Raymond moaned. The stars danced dizzily. The lights of other fishing vessels returning home with their catch danced too. His stomach heaved.
‘Seems a long time, does it, young sir?’ Edouarz teased. Another groan. The fisherman jerked his thumb at a dark, low-lying mass on their left. ‘That’s
Dropping the poker against the iron firedogs with a clang, Count François let out an ugly laugh. ‘The woman’s his harlot, le Bret, his harlot. What man would risk starting a war – and that’s what it would amount to – over a whore?’
Alan looked unconvinced.
‘Remember that half pound of silver, Captain. Can you think of an easier way of earning it?’
Alan couldn’t.
‘All you have to do is see them off.’ The Count raised a russet brow and slapped Alan on the back with a false bonhomie that jarred more than the gesture. ‘Think of it, Captain. Think of the girls...’
‘I’ve better uses for money than to waste it on whores,’ Alan declared flatly. ‘But your offer is tempting.’ Half a pound of silver, plus his pay, was a fortune to a mercenary. He could live off the coined silver for a long time, but what counted most was that de Roncier’s money would give him the freedom to choose a better master. Two years ago, when he had joined de Roncier’s troop, he and Ned had been desperate. He’d have signed his soul to anyone. But with English minted pennies swelling his purse, he’d be rich enough to pick and choose.
‘You’ll do it?’ de Roncier asked. ‘I’ll pay you tomorrow, when it’s over. I’m taking a strongbox to the tavern. I’ll dole out there, when I hear they’ve...gone.’
‘And my troop?’
‘Aye, fry your eyes, I’ll pay your troop too.’
‘I’ll do it.’ And, saluting the man who would be his lord only until the sun set the following night, Alan marched briskly from the solar.
François let his breath go on a sigh. Captain le Bret was an awkward man, and he seemed to have misjudged him. At times the fellow was as hard as tempered steel, but at other times...
Absently François refilled his glass. Le Bret was an enigma. But one thing was clear, he was single-minded; he had come in to get his back pay, and he had left with exactly what he came for – and more. ‘He’s an opportunist,’ François murmured, ‘and as tough as they come.’
He sipped his wine and, grimacing, deposited the glass on the pewter tray. The bottle had been open to the air too long; the contents had soured, and set his teeth on edge. Heading for his bed and his wife, he wondered how long Alan le Bret had been stationed outside the solar door. How much had he heard? There was no telling, but perhaps it would be prudent to despatch Malait with him on the morrow. François nodded to himself. He would charge the Norseman with finding the statue his mother coveted. He need make no mention of the gem. One could not trust routiers. The less they knew, the better.
Wondering if Eleanor would be asleep, François mounted the spiral stairs to his turret bedchamber.
Chapter Six
T he bottom of the fishing boat was wet with a combination of dew and seawater that soaked through cloak and breeches to Raymond’s bones. He had counted on being able to sleep on the pre-dawn trip across the bay, but his clothes were too damp, he felt cold, and to add to his miseries the Small Sea was choppy and the rocking motion of the boat gave him
mal de mer
.
‘How much longer, Edouarz?’ Raymond groaned, lying back so he could try counting stars and forget his nausea.
The closed lantern attached to the mast let out a few shreds of light – just enough to reach the face of the man at the tiller, the boat’s owner. Edouarz glanced briefly at his passenger, and bit back a grin on seeing the boy’s tight lips and greenish tinge. He tipped his head back to examine the sail of his tiny vessel. The patched canvas bellied out with the wind. ‘Half an hour, maybe longer.’
Raymond moaned. The stars danced dizzily. The lights of other fishing vessels returning home with their catch danced too. His stomach heaved.
‘Seems a long time, does it, young sir?’ Edouarz teased. Another groan. The fisherman jerked his thumb at a dark, low-lying mass on their left. ‘That’s
Similar Books
