‘Where would be the point?’ Heulwen said in a tired voice. ‘I doubt you’d listen.’

‘And still she bares her teeth,’ he smiled, his fingers still caressing. ‘Tell me then, vixen, how much do you hate me?’

She drew a sharp breath to spit at him that words could not describe the depth of her revulsion, but looking into his face she caught the fleeting glimpse of another expression behind the mockery — a child peeping out from behind a wall to survey the ruins of a prank that had gone monstrously wrong.

‘I don’t hate you, Warrin,’ she said instead, wearily. ‘God help us both, I pity you.’

The fleeting glimpse vanished, obliterated as he hit her open-handed across the face — not enough to really hurt, but sufficient to give due warning of what was to come if she dared too far. ‘Careful,’ he said gently. ‘De Lacey might be soft enough to let you insult him, but don’t expect it of me.’

Heulwen met his gaze then quickly looked away before he should see her loathing. Warrin smiled and stretched with languorous satisfaction. ‘Do you want a drink?’

She tossed her head and willed herself to smile. ‘Why not?’

He sauntered over to the flagon and splashed wine into the cup. ‘There’s only one,’ he said, raising it to her. ‘Never mind, we can share it like a pair of lovers.’

She sat up, the cloak tucked around her breasts, and reached out sideways for Warrin’s discarded shirt and tunic.

He looked at her sharply. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m cold,’ she protested, ‘and these are warm and dry.’ She flashed him a look full of wide innocence. ‘Surely you don’t believe I’d be so foolish as to try and run?’

He grunted. ‘I don’t know. That Welsh blood of yours is too fickle to be trusted.’ He took a gulp of the wine and returned, but despite his words he did not prevent her from pulling on the garments, amused by the novelty. When she reached for his chausses, however, he rubbed his index finger gently along her naked inner thigh. ‘What are you doing here in Angers?’ he asked softly.


Thierry took a cheek-bulging mouthful of wine, swilled it round his mouth, swallowed and sighed with enjoyment. Then he picked up the waiting dice, blew on them and threw. They landed in his favour. Grinning from ear to ear, he scooped up his winnings amid the groans of his fellow gamblers.

He had been here longer than he should, he knew that, but outside it was still pouring down, and he was winning hand over fist. He promised himself that as soon as he started to lose he would leave. A girl who was filling up jugs of wine kept smiling at him. She had sparkling eyes and dimples. He winked at her and wondered if he could spend the rest of the night comfortably bedded down in the hay store with her breasts for a pillow. Just as he was about to call her over and explore the possibility, his cousin strode into the room wearing an expression as black as the weather.

‘Alun!’ Thierry strove to his feet, staggered, and planted his legs wide apart to hold his balance. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

‘A murrain on the devil!’ Alun spat, grabbing a handful of his cousin’s tunic and dragging him face to face. ‘What kind of stew have you been stirring your fingers in? Where’s Lady Heulwen?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Thierry tried to push him off, but without success. ‘Let go of me. You’re mad!’

‘Mad, am I? What’s this then?’ Alun had felt the bulge beneath Thierry’s tunic and snatched out the bag of silver from its nestling place against Thierry’s breast. ‘Winnings from dice?’ He flung the silver down on the table. Men turned and looked. ‘Christ Jesu, you’re in dead trouble, and you’ll soon be just dead…Come on!’ He dragged at his cousin’s arm.

Thierry belched. ‘Stop panicking,’ he said, belligerent with drink. ‘I was as cosy as a clam in a shell here until you came bursting in.’

‘Idiot, if you don’t—’ Alun stopped. ‘Christ’s balls,’ he muttered under his breath, and stared at Jerold who was blocking the doorway.

‘You tripe-witted dolt, you’ve led them straight to me, haven’t you!’ Thierry spat, and drew his sword.

Jerold moved equally fast, but was tripped by Alun.

‘Run, Thierry!’ Alun bellowed.

Jerold scrambled to his feet. ‘Keep out of this!’ he growled at Alun, and plunged out of the drinking den in pursuit of his quarry.

Water spurted from beneath Jerold’s boots as he ran. He tripped over a startled cat and almost fell again. The cat yowled. He cursed, narrowing his eyes, and licked water from his scrubby moustache. After a pause to listen, he hurried down the narrow black throat of an alleyway running parallel to the waterfront. Before him, faintly, he could hear lurching, staggering footsteps. Thierry’s, he hoped, and his stomach knotted at the thought that he might only be pursuing a worthless drunk.

The footsteps ceased. Jerold stopped, his heart threatening to burst as he drew his breath shallowly, the better not to be heard. Further up the alley a shutter was flung open and someone peered out amidst a dim splash of candlelight. He saw a rope of dark hair hanging down.

‘Who’s there?’

Silence. Jerold flattened himself against the wall and side-stepped softly along it, gently drawing his dagger.

‘Come away,’ commanded a querulous, sleepy voice from the depths of the room, ‘it’s only cats.’

The shutter slammed. Jerold shot out of the shadows, grabbed the man hiding half slumped in the darkness of the recessed doorway, and laid the blade at his throat. ‘Where is Lady Heulwen?’ he hissed.

Thierry’s larynx moved convulsively against the knife. A shudder ran through his body and his weight started to sag against Jerold. ‘The Alisande,’ he croaked.

‘Louder, whoreson, I can’t hear you.’

Thierry responded with a bubbling choke and Jerold realised that it was not rain on his hands but the heat of blood, and that the man he held was badly, if not mortally wounded.

‘Waiting for me outside,’ Thierry gargled, ‘tried to run…Too much drink. Can’t always throw to win…She’s on the Alisande. ’ The last word was an indistinguishable choke that faded to nothing.

‘Listen, you poxy Angev—’ Thierry’s head lolled, and Jerold found that he was holding a literal dead weight. A soft oath issued from his lips. He was in a pitch-dark alleyway with a freshly stabbed man and, most probably, his murderer. He backed up against the door, every sense straining. There was silence, but that did not mean it was safe.

His alertness gave him a split second’s warning; enough time to sense the direction of attack and to thrust Thierry’s body towards the dark shape that came at him. He heard a grunt of surprise, saw the faint gleam of light along the edge of a knife, and ran sideways out of the doorway which was protecting his back but giving him no room to manoeuvre. He transferred his dagger to his left hand and drew his sword in a shiver of steel.

His attacker leaped and struck. Jerold felt the dagger tip prick through his mail, but the hauberk was triple-linked and the rings held off the force of the knife. He tried to swing the sword, but a gauntleted fist crashed into the side of his face, making him reel, and the long dagger flashed again, striking not for his body this time, but for his throat.

Jerold got his arm up in time, and again the hauberk saved him from certain death, but he was stunned, his vision and reflexes impaired. Light blossomed, contracting his pupils; he had a momentary impaired glimpse of the face of his assailant, staring upwards at the shutters above, which once more had been flung open, and recognised him for one of Warrin’s men.

‘Drunkards, go and brawl in someone else’s doorway!’ shrieked the woman with the dark braid, and accompanied her abuse with the well-aimed contents of a chamber pot. The other man involuntarily recoiled. Jerold reversed his sword and buffeted the hilt into the other’s diaphragm with as much force as he could muster. He heard the air retch out of him, saw him double up, and was feverishly upon him, fingers winding in the rain-and urine-soaked hair to jerk back the head and expose to the sword a pale expanse of throat. Above him, the woman screamed more abuse and banged the shutters closed again.

More footfalls splashed in the darkness coming at a soft run, and voices echoed. Breathing hard through his mouth, Jerold stared towards them. Torchlight flared against the slick alley walls; horses’ hooves rang on stone.

He gave a great gasp of relief and the wildness went out of his face as he recognised first the sorrel and then, half concealed behind a pitch-soaked brand, his lord. Sweyn and Austin were with him and half a dozen serjeants on foot. ‘She’s been taken to a ship or a boat by the name of Alisande,’ Jerold panted. ‘If we can make this whoreson sing, he’ll tell us precisely where.’ And then, eyes flickering sideways to one of the men on foot who was crouching over the form in the doorway, ‘It’s no use Alun, Thierry’s dead for his sins. One gamble too many.’

‘I know where the Alisande is moored, I saw her today,’ Adam said, the quietness of his voice betraying how close to the edge of reason he actually was. ‘Jerold, deal with this. You can have the footsoldiers.’ Backing Vaillantif, a difficult feat in the narrow alley, he turned him and spurred towards the wharves at a speed that would have been considered reckless in the light of day, and was pure insanity in the middle of a black, rainy night. Sweyn spat an obscenity and struggled after him, Austin not far behind.

Jerold closed his eyes for a moment. There was blood running from a deep cut on his cheek. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, looked at the dark smear, then lifted his weight from his semi-conscious assailant.