It drowned the sounds that might have warned her. She did not hear the soft word spoken with the guard on deck, or the padding of swift feet down the stairway. There was a quick step behind her. Before she could even turn her head, powerful hands seized her from behind. A hand jammed itself over her mouth, stifling any sound she might try to make, and she was dragged bodily from the chair, held hard against her assailant’s body. Dim though the light was, it showed the thin gleam of a knife raised to strike.

He was very strong, and the folds of her bedgown hampered her, but she struggled and kicked out. She heard him give what sounded like a grunt of surprise, and his grip slackened momentarily, so that she twisted sharply in his grip, clawing up for his face with her one free hand, and lashing out as best she could with her feet. Barefooted as she was, she could hardly have hoped to hurt him, but she caught him off balance, and as the two of them lurched across the little cabin towards the bed, one wild and random kick landed squarely on the sleeping child.

There was a gasp, a jerk of movement from the bed, then a shout in a high young voice, ringing to rouse the ship, “Guard! Guard! To me!” and the quick flash of another knife as the boy flung himself at them and stabbed down, hard.

Alice found herself on the floor, breathless, tousled, and bruised, but unhurt. Above her a curse, and another cry. It might have gone hard for the child, but the guards had heard. There was an answering shout, then the crashing of armed feet as the two men hurled themselves down the stairway and into the cabin. One of them trod on her hand as he jumped to seize the attacker. The latter made no resistance. He had dropped his knife and was clutching his right arm with fingers through which blood dripped. Someone else came running with a lantern, and the place was suddenly filled with noise and light. Standing on the bed, cloak thrown off and fair hair flying, the child Chlodovald, dagger in hand and blue eyes blazing, looked ready to strike again.

Then the duke was there, on his knees beside her.

“Alice! Child! Are you hurt?”

“No. No, I’m all right. Really I am, Father. What happened? Who is he?”

“One of the crew, I think. A servant.” He helped her up and set her back in the chair. “That’s how he got past the guards. They knew him. He told them I had sent him.”

She looked up, still dizzy with the struggle and the tossing light and shadow and the noise in the crowded cabin. The boy was shouting something in the Frankish tongue, sounding alarmed and angry, and two men – it was Jeshua and the ship’s master – were trying to calm him and, presumably, explain where he was and that the danger was past. The assassin, a thickset young man whom she vaguely remembered having seen somewhere about the ship, was in the grip of the two guards.