the room. Lamps burned brightly on every table, richly coloured tapestries hung along each wall and they drank from ornate goblets. Anyone who visited would be awestruck by the riches on display and understand that Blanche Tanet’s spirit had not died when her husband Yann had been executed.
She stood on the raised dais before the fire, knowing that her silhouette before the flames was dramatic, and waited for silence.
‘Luring the ship on to the rocks was cowardly and short-sighted. We could harm our allies as much as our enemies. That must not happen again.’ She waited while the inevitable muttering subsided. Jagu Ronec was sitting beside Andrey, his face thunderous. Blanche smiled at him warmly, despite the stirrings of anxiety inside her, and addressed her next words of flattery to him.
‘You are all brave men, strong and determined, and have no need of such tricks. Tonight, my friends, we attack the French ship that is sailing down the coast from Concarneau. I wish you success. We will win and Brittany will triumph.’
She held her goblet aloft, fingers closing round the jewelled stem, and led the toast. The wine they had salvaged from the wreck was excellent quality. She stepped down and spoke to Ronec.
‘I’ll sail with you tonight. White Hawk leads the advance.’
Ronec’s eyes gleamed. Blanche hid her revulsion as his lips brushed the back of her hand. If she had been more far-sighted, she would never have thrown her lot in with him, but it had seemed a good idea given that he was her closest neighbour and a friend of her first husband. He was fiercely passionate about the cause, but lacked the acumen to come up with such a bold venture himself. A week of nights in his bed had been a price she had reluctantly accepted in return for the money she had needed and the provision of a crew, but he clearly expected the transaction to continue even after he had paid her what she needed for White Hawk. That she had staved him off for over a year was a source of amazement to everyone, most of all to Blanche, and it was a constant worry that she could not hope to do so for ever.
The assault was a success. White Hawk lay in wait for the French cog while White Wolf came from behind. When the sail was hoisted it caught the wind, the square billowing out, proudly displaying the symbol of the wolf pelt. She saw White Hawk do the same. Blanche’s mood lifted, as it never failed to once she felt the waves lifting and breaking. The symbol of Yann’s favourite quarry now struck fear into the hearts of the foe who had taken him.
The crew were suppressed with ease and little bloodshed. Blanche strode back and forth before the bound crew who knelt on the deck at sword point. Dressed in Bleiz Mor’s disguise, the sense of power never failed to thrill her. Even in the height of summer, she wore a thickly padded gambeson beneath a heavy leather jerkin. As well as protecting her, it gave her a masculine shape. The impression was of a stocky man. To complete the disguise, she wore a low-brimmed hat and grotesque jongleur’s leather mask in the form of a wolf’s upper face. It added an air of menace and ensured that any opponent would not realise he was facing a woman. She suspected she could forgo the padding and still go undetected because how many women ever faced and defeated men as she did?
‘Thank you for your donation to our cause,’ she smirked. ‘John de Montfort will be grateful for your weapons and the people of Brittany will eat well with your wages.’
The Captain stared at her with hatred in his eyes, but his defiance subsided as she stood over him. She tore the hat from his head and grasped him by the hair, ready to slit his throat, but stayed her hand on seeing the shock of unkempt blond hair and the crisscross of scars on his brow. He reminded her too much of the man lying in her storeroom.
‘Let them live so they can pass our message to their commanders,’ she said. She waited until the crew had been thrust into the rowboat and tossed the flaming brand on to the deck of Charles Roi herself.
Both of Blanche’s ships returned home wealthier than when they had left. Cheered by the thought of gold, Ronec had barely objected when Blanche took the opportunity to tell him of the survivor’s presence. It had been fortuitous.
It was almost dawn when Blanche returned to the castle, the scent of woodsmoke in her nostrils and cries for mercy in her ears. As soon as Ronec left to return to his own home, Andrey spoke to Blanche in an undertone.
‘The guard I left on the stranger’s room came to speak to me. Your survivor has been creating quite a disturbance. He has been demanding to speak to you.’
‘Demanding?’ If he was capable of such, then he must have made a swift recovery since Blanche had spoken with him.
‘Requesting, then. But forcefully and frequently. He has eaten and bathed so he no longer stinks.’ Andrey frowned. ‘I am not happy with him being here. We should slit his throat, or at the very least surrender him to someone who has more proficiency in discovering the truth. It would gain you some credit.’
Blanche recoiled. ‘You mean torture? No.’
Andrey grinned. ‘Are you showing mercy again tonight, Cousin? Since when have you shown compassion to your enemies? You have cut down men in their dozens without a second thought.’
Blanche closed her eyes. She smelled the iron odour of blood, felt the cold steel in her hand. Each man she had cut down in the assault on Charles Roi had been one strike against Charles de Blois and his army in revenge for the loyal Bretons who had died. Why did the existence of one stranger attack her conscience so powerfully? Her strange compassion to the surviving crew was his fault.
‘We are in a war. I will kill when I know the men are my enemies,’ she said brusquely. ‘I don’t know that this man is. He may be an ally or, if he does follow de Blois’s cause, he may be a useful hostage. We can hand him over at any time.’
She glanced towards the building where Jack was being housed. She had few servants, but even at dawn the building was buzzing like a beehive, alive with the sounds of daily life. A visitor listening to the chatter of maids washing could believe he was in just another household, not the stronghold of a feared pirate.
‘He might respond better to a man asking questions. Not all men think women worth speaking the truth to.’
Maybe it was time for Jack to receive a visit from the Sea Wolf. This would test him and allow Blanche to see whether she received the same declarations twice.
‘I will speak to him once more.’
Andrey looked her up and down. ‘Like this? What if he recognises you?’
Blanche gave him a tight smile. ‘It isn’t likely. He’ll see what he expects to see—a man in a mask. Why would he assume I’m a woman beneath the disguise when I do something so unwomanly? He’s only seen me briefly in any case.’
She made her way instead to the storeroom. Andrey’s guard was sitting at the end of the corridor, dozing. He jumped at her sharp whistle.
‘Has he been any trouble tonight?’ Blanche asked.
The guard shook his head.
‘Wait here for my word,’ Blanche instructed, taking the lantern from the table. She pulled her mask on, tipped the brim of her hat lower over her face and swung the door open.
Jack was lying on the bed, stretched out on top of the furs. His hands were behind his head and one long leg was bent at the knee, crooked over the other. He appeared to be asleep and looked much as he had on the beach the first time Blanche had seen him. She was half-tempted to try to wake him and see if he repeated his kiss and in turn regained some memories, but as she stepped over the threshold his head jerked up.
‘Madame, is that you?’
His tone was eager. Blanche paused, wondering what in her step had made him recognise her? She lowered her voice more, making it into a husky snarl.