I heard her only dimly. I went on studying the painting, and as my eyes passed over Isabelle it seemed she was now staring straight at me, as though she yearned to tell me something. The quiet shadows wrapped cold hands around me, and I quickly looked away. It was, at any rate, the end of the impromptu tour. We wandered back into the sunlight of the walled and roofless yard.
Christian took up a position by the baptismal font, beneath the waving branches of the bay tree, and began to sketch again in ink, his upward glances swift and keen as he traced the broken architecture onto paper. Not wanting to disturb his concentration, I settled myself between Neil and Martine, against the great pillars opposite. I don’t believe I did it purposely, sitting between the two of them … I don’t believe I did … but then, my actions and reactions where Neil Grantham was concerned were becoming increasingly unpredictable.
He levered his head away from the curved white stone to toss the thick fall of fair hair back out of his eyes, and the noonday sunlight struck him full across the face. ‘This is as close to Eden as it gets,’ he said. ‘I daren’t come up here too often, or I’d never get anything accomplished. In fact I’d probably never leave Chinon, come to that.’ He started to smile, but my expression stopped him. ‘What? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ I looked away rather quickly. It would sound foolish to tell the truth, to tell him that I’d only just now noticed that his eyes weren’t black at all. They were blue, a pure dark blue, deep as the still sea at midnight. Not that it much mattered what colour his eyes were. What mattered was that I’d noticed it at all.
Harry had always laughed at me for noticing men’s eyes. ‘I can always tell when you’re smitten, my love,’ he’d teased me, more than once. ‘I only have to ask you what colour his eyes are.’ And he was right, as always. If I wasn’t interested I answered ‘brown’, not knowing, but if a man had struck my fancy I could describe his eyes in embarrassing detail.
I felt my face growing warm, but Neil didn’t notice. He’d looked away again, towards the far wall, where he’d been sitting earlier. ‘There’s that bloody bird again,’ he said, his voice mildly amused.
Martine, at my other shoulder, turned her head to look. ‘What bird?’
‘Just over there. The swallow. He was hopping round like mad this morning – made me tired just watching him. He must have his nest around here somewhere.’
I stared at the little fork-tailed bird, and for a moment – just a moment, mind – I almost wanted to believe …
Don’t be an idiot, I told myself firmly. It wasn’t the same swallow I’d seen, it couldn’t possibly be, and it certainly hadn’t brought me a message from any prince. There were no such things, I reminded myself, as princes. Neil rolled his head sideways again, as if to tell me something, but I pushed myself upright and rose to my feet. ‘I think I’ll leave my own donation at the altar,’ I said, my voice sounding unnaturally bright. ‘This is a lovely place, I’d hate to see it go to ruin for lack of funds.’
I wasn’t the only one who felt that way, obviously. Beside the statue of Sainte Radegonde, the small chipped saucer held a generous scattering of coins. Among the thin French francs I saw a few larger pieces that proved to be American, and half hidden below those was a smallish coin of beaten silver …
I stared at it a moment, disbelieving. It couldn’t be, I thought, it simply couldn’t be … but there it was, all the same – a small, round coin of tarnished silver, with the image of a dead king raised on one side. The image of King John of England, third of the Plantagenet line.
The breeze blew suddenly chill within the sheltering walls, and I heard again my cousin’s laughing voice, and saw him close his fist protectively around that coin, drawing it back and up, out of my reach. ‘You might have stopped believing in good luck pieces, Emily Braden,’ he’d told me then with an indulgent smile, ‘but I haven’t. I’d rather lose my right arm than this little chap.’
Numbly, without thinking, I fished the coin from the saucer and closed my fingers round it, pressing it into the soft flesh of my palm until I could feel each contour of its worn surface. It was no longer in its round protective casing, but it was obviously Harry’s coin. I wouldn’t think too many tourists carried King John coins about. He had been here, then, just recently. I frowned. Harry had been here …
My own five-franc piece tumbled with a noisy clatter into the saucer and Martine looked round, blinking in the sunlight. She couldn’t have seen me clearly, there in my shadowed corner, but still she asked: ‘Something is wrong?’
Beneath the saint’s accusing eyes I slipped the coin into my pocket, and shook my head. ‘No, nothing’s wrong.’ Satisfied, Martine turned away again to talk to Neil, and I clenched my trembling hand into a fist. Nothing’s wrong, I repeated, silently. I only wished I could believe it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me …
It was nearly dark when I left my room and went to look for Paul. I found him sitting alone in the bar, his shoulder to the wall of windows fronting on the square. Ulysses lay open on the low table at his knees, the spread pages pinned beneath a heavy glass ashtray.
He looked so peaceful, sitting there, that I hated to disturb him, but there was no help for it. My aunt’s telephone had been engaged all afternoon, and when I’d rung my father I’d been greeted by his answering machine. Which left only Paul. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable discussing my problems with anyone else, but Paul already seemed an old friend. As I entered the bar he surfaced from his book and sent me a welcoming smile. ‘You’ve got good timing,’ he said. ‘I was just about to put this down and have a drink.’