The Stone Rose

by Carol Townend

  The trestle table was cluttered with wineskins and goblets, and the air was thick with wine fumes. Standing at the end of the table confronting the seated men, was a young English trooper, Ned Fletcher.

  Fair of face and colouring, and taller than le Bret, the trooper had his feet planted slightly apart in an attitude of defiance. He was very young, and his cheeks were stripped of their usual bright colour. About eighteen, his skin did not bear scars or marks of dissipation as did that of the others in the room. He had the fresh-faced innocence of a peasant farm lad, but his youthfulness was not the only thing that set him apart from his officers. The clarity of his blue eyes hinted that his soul had miraculously escaped contamination by his profession. Ned Fletcher was cousin to Captain le Bret, but he was defying his master, and he knew this would not weigh in his favour.

  Alan le Bret glanced at his liege lord. As usual, François de Roncier’s ruined hazel eyes were boring into a wineskin, but then the Count leaned forward and his florid features twisted into an expression of intense, almost petulant, irritation. Alan knew de Roncier to be a dangerous man, and the petulance increased rather than diminished the sense of danger. Alan was looking at a man to whom a whim was reason enough to kill, and the pallor on his cousin’s cheeks confirmed that Ned knew this, and that he was afraid.

  ‘Repeat that, Fletcher,’ the Count asked with deceptive mildness. ‘I think I must have misheard you.’

  ‘I...I like not...’ Ned cleared his throat ‘...the sound of this commission, mon seigneur.’

  When Ned had left England two years ago with Alan, his gift for languages had guaranteed him work far from his homeland. Like most men, Ned could neither read nor write, but he spoke two languages well: his native English, and the French that nobles were wont to use whether in England or on the Continent. He was still coming to grips with the Breton tongue, which Alan, naturally, had learned from his father.

  Alan saw the Count’s freckled fingers reach for the wineskin and toy with its stopper. An ugly silence fell. De Roncier let it drag on deliberately, doubtless to unnerve Ned. He succeeded. Ned’s pallor grew more marked. Alan held his peace. It was not for him to interfere unless he had to. Ned had put his head in this particular noose himself. He would have to get himself out of it on his own.

  At length, the Count broke the hush by tapping his fingers sharply on the edge of the table. ‘You interrupt our discussion to tell us you mislike this commission, Fletcher?’ The Frenchman shifted, his chair squealed a protest and the bloodshot eyes flickered at Alan. ‘One of yours, le Bret?’

  Alan tossed back his blue-black fringe. ‘Aye, mon seigneur. I’ll have him disciplined. Fletcher, get back below. I’ll see to you later.’

  Alan’s cousin opened his mouth to protest, but when the soft, cornflower blue eyes clashed with Alan’s, he had the sense to falter. Alan gave an almost imperceptible headshake, Ned’s mouth snapped shut, he turned on his heel, and to Alan’s relief he went to the door.

  Captain Malait was taking no interest in the proceedings; indeed, he appeared to be sinking into sleep, blond head pillowed on his strong arms.

  De Roncier teased the stopper from the wineskin and, disdaining the goblets, raised it to his lips. ‘Malait’s had a skinful,’ he observed, though all of them knew that the Norseman was no more out of commission than the Count himself was. Even when reeling drunk not a man in Malait’s troop would dare disobey him.

  Otto Malait’s pale eyes opened. He stretched, and glanced towards the door. ‘Moralisers always send me to sleep.’

  To Alan’s dismay his cousin was hovering on the threshold. Biting back a groan, he spoke coldly, ‘Fletcher?’

  Ned started, and large, haunted eyes looked pleadingly across at him. Alan tightened his jaw, and kept his face expressionless. Devil take the young fool. Not for the first time, Alan regretted bringing Ned with him to Brittany. Ned should have stayed home on the farm in Richmond, he was not adapted to this life. If Ned was going to succeed in de Roncier’s company, he should try using his brains instead of diving into something he knew nothing about with woolly, half-formed objections. It was time he learned to accept realities. They were mercenaries now, not peasant farmers. ‘Get someone to bring up a jug of the local cider, will you, Fletcher?’ Alan spoke in English, with a steely edge to his voice. ‘I mislike this wine.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  His cousin whisked out of the chamber.

  François de Roncier leaned back in his chair and grinned at his captains. He was pleased they were in his employ. The Count had never known them to lose either their heads or control of the rabble below, even when they had downed a hogshead of wine apiece. They were as reliable as any routier ever was and, given that their world was one of ever-changing alliances and shifting allegiances, they had proved themselves loyal. Malait had been with him for three years, le Bret for two, and the Count was confident they would not cavil at the job in hand.

  De Roncier considered his captains through a haze of drink fumes. As soldiers, he did not think there was much to choose between them; they were as different as chalk and cheese, yet they worked in harness well enough. He knew little that was personal about either man. All that mattered was that they should follow his orders.

  The door gaped and Ned Fletcher marched in, a brimming pitcher in his hand. He set it carefully on the table. ‘Mon seigneur...’

  The Count’s eyes kindled.

  Reading determination on his cousin’s young face, Alan’s heart dropped to his boots. Oh, Jesu, not again. There was something, a hint only, in Ned’s eyes that reminded Alan of his brother William. He too had the suicidal tenacity of the idealist.

  ‘Fletcher,’ Alan invested his voice with menace, ‘get below.’ Ned was a reckless fool. The ones with a conscience were always the first to the wall. Had the boy learned nothing since leaving Richmond?

  ‘I...I’m sorry, Captain.’ Ned lifted his chin and continued with a baldness that made Alan close his eyes. ‘But I must have my say. I...I do not like the sound of this commission and I do not wish to take part in it.’

  The Norseman emerged briefly from his pitcher. ‘Insubordinate,’ he muttered. ‘Begging to be flogged.’

  De Roncier’s hazel eyes narrowed, became slits.

  Alan held his breath. Ned had gall, he’d give him that, but God help him. Did he realise the enormity of his folly?

  Ned stood his ground. ‘Mon seigneur, I’ve never used my sword against women and I don’t plan on starting.’

  ‘Use your sword against women? Who told you that?’

  ‘The...the men below.’

  The Count lifted a tawny brow. ‘Le Bret, is this the trooper you’re kin to?’

  ‘Aye, mon seigneur.’

  ‘Did you betray my plans to him?’

  ‘No, mon seigneur.’

  ‘You disappoint me, Fletcher,’ de Roncier flicked his eyes wide, a trick Alan knew had disconcerted many a more seasoned man than Ned, ‘listening to idle gossip.’

  ‘I...I’m sorry, mon seigneur, if I misunderstood,’ Ned stammered doggedly on. ‘But I want it noted that I will not attack women.’

  ‘Christ on the Cross! We’re only going to frighten a couple of thieving whores named Yolande and...’ de Roncier frowned ‘...I forget the other name. Whores don’t count, surely? You pick a fine time to tell me you’ve got principles!’ Uttering the last word with blistering scorn, he turned his gaze on Alan. ‘Do you have scruples, le Bret? Is this a family failing?’

  ‘I’ve never been able to afford them, my lord.’ Ned’s fists, Alan noticed, were clenched white at his sides, so he must realise that the whipping post was the most likely reward for his dissent.

  The Count linked his fingers, flexed them till the joints cracked, and took time to examine his fingernails. ‘Can you afford scruples, Fletcher? How much back pay do I owe you?’

  ‘Four months, mon seigneur.’ Alan’s cousin went red and white in quick succession as the implications of what de Ronc
ier was saying went home. ‘No, mon seigneur! Whip me if you must, but you can’t withhold my money. I’ve earned it! I need it. My mother is ailing.’

  Malait’s hand went to his chest. ‘Our hearts are breaking, Fletcher,’ he drawled, eyes as round as pennies. The Viking continued to stare at the young trooper, and a disturbing light flared in the pale eyes.

  Ned stuttered. ‘M...mon seigneur, I...I beg you–’

  ‘I never withhold payment from those who serve me well.’ De Roncier smiled pleasantly. ‘And you will serve me well, won’t you, Fletcher?’

  Ned’s sturdy, peasant’s jaw jutted. His lips parted. Alan concealed a sigh. His cousin was about to add insult to injury, and it was rather like seeing a child thrust its hand into a fire, hard to stand by and let it happen. Alan climbed to his feet, clicked his tongue in disgust and clapped Ned on the shoulder. ‘The way to get noticed is by proving yourself indispensable, not by threatening to withdraw your services. My lord has seen through your bluff.’

  Ned choked, ‘B...b–’

  Alan’s hand bit into his cousin’s neck. Ned subsided, scowling. ‘Let me advise you,’ Alan went on. ‘There are surer routes to promotion, and if that’s your aim, I’m willing to instruct you. I could use a good sergeant.’

  ‘B...but–’

  ‘Take heed of le Bret, lad,’ Captain Malait intervened, unexpectedly. Then, as though ashamed that he had broken out of his usual mould by speaking on another’s behalf, the Viking flushed and beat a hasty retreat behind the flagon of cider.

  Alan blinked, he had not expected assistance from that quarter. He hoped it did not mean what he thought it meant. He shot his cousin a startled glance, but Ned’s innocence had in this instance kept him from noticing the Norseman’s interest. Ned was not even looking at Malait.

  Just then, the cathedral bells began to peal and the chamber was flooded with sound. It was a welcome diversion. ‘The sermon’s about to start,’ Alan said.

  De Roncier shot to his feet ‘Aye. No time for this now. Deal with your half-wit cousin later, le Bret. And keep an eye on him, will you? I want a report on his conduct. I’ll support no slackers in your troop. The men are ready? They know what to do?’

  ‘Aye, mon seigneur.’

  ‘Very well. Get on with it. Go and mingle with the crowd in the cathedral.’

  Chapter Three

  The nave of St Peter’s was a dim and draughty place even when crammed to capacity. As was the custom, the congregation stood on the bare earth floor. There were no pews or benches.

  A bony elbow dug Gwenn in the ribs. A pair of unfriendly black eyes leered out of an unshaven face, and a pungent, sweaty odour wrinkled her nostrils. There were some rough characters in the church today, with cold, hard faces. Belatedly remembering her modesty, Gwenn pulled her veil close about her as her grandmother had taught her, and shuffled towards Irene Brasher. She shivered. If only she had been more sensible about her choice of clothing. She should have worn a woollen dress instead of the flimsy blue silk. A series of frosts and thaws during the winter had caused the wooden walls of the ancient church to warp; draughts whipped through the cracks and whistled over the heads of the townsfolk.

  High in the shadows of the roof, sparrows hopped along crossbeams with twigs and straw fast in their beaks, like tiny tumblers carrying balancing poles. The sparrows’ nests were clustered among cobwebs that hung thick and black with the dust of ages. The sparrows, like the martins, were rebuilding for spring with a single-minded determination that no Lady Day sermon would stop. A spatter of bird dropping plummeted earthwards and landed slap in the centre of a merchant’s cap.

  Gwenn nudged Irene’s foot. ‘A hit,’ she hissed. Irene giggled. Giggles in church were invariably infectious, and Gwenn felt laughter rise within her for all that she bit her lips to contain it.

  ‘Hush!’ Jammed next to Gwenn was an elderly woman swathed in widow’s garb from head to toe. She lived near the Close, but was not on speaking terms with Gwenn’s family. The woman was wagging a censorious finger under Gwenn’s nose, and it seemed to Gwenn that the woman recognised her, for all at once she looked startled. The widow’s words confirmed this, ‘I didn’t expect to see you here today, girl. Get out, if you’ve sense.’

  ‘Shhh! Shhh!’ Someone quieted the woman and a coarse, male voice barked out a word Gwenn had never encountered before, not even from her brother Raymond, but instinctively she knew it was more suited to a tavern than a holy place. The widow went the colour of ripe strawberries and her snowy wimple shook with fury. She gave Gwenn one final warning look and sealed her lips.

  Gwenn was wondering if the woman’s agitation at her presence was due to her being out without Izabel, when a movement in the choir caught her attention. ‘Look, Irene.’ She pointed, and Father Jerome, it could be no other, stalked through the vestry door and into the transept. His dome of a head was held high, his eyes shone with conviction and his countenance alone was fierce enough to put the fear of God into all who looked upon him. Gwenn exchanged glances with Irene, and the woman’s strange warning went right out of her head. She was used to the comfortable friendliness of Father Mark, the local priest. Father Jerome did not look comfortable, nor did he look friendly. He exuded power. He looked more powerful even than the bishop, and he was not at all what Gwenn had been expecting. The Black Monk looked – she searched for the word – warlike.

  Like most of those in the nave, Gwenn had been drawn to the church because the monk’s reputation had preceded him. A member of the Benedictine Order, and addressed as Father rather than Brother because of his position as a consecrated priest, Father Jerome was famed for his powers of oratory. Today, as part of the Lady Day celebrations, Father Jerome was condescending to speak in the Breton tongue, so all would be able to understand him. It was a rare privilege to be permitted to understand a man of the Church. Most services were held in Latin, God’s special language. Churchmen spoke and wrote in that exclusive tongue, and the simple folk were not expected to understand it. Gwenn was reasonably familiar with Latin, because she had sat in on Raymond’s lessons, but Gwenn’s knowledge was exceptional. Normally, understanding was reserved for the higher orders. People attended church for fear of God, or because it was expected of them, or because it was a good place to meet their friends. In Vannes the townsfolk were drawn to the cathedral because they loved Father Mark.

  When it became known that Father Jerome was prepared to spread God’s word in the language of the people, the townsfolk had been intrigued. It did not matter that he was reputed to be uncompromising and hard on sinners. He was going to speak in Breton – in their own dialect. Gwenn had been looking forward to hearing what the Benedictine had to say, but now that she had seen him, and noticed the unfriendly looks on the faces of some of the congregation, doubt stirred within her.

  Tall and stately as a king’s champion, Father Jerome gathered his habit into his hand and strode onto the platform. It was odd seeing him in Father Mark’s place, odd seeing his fierce eyes glare at the assembly when Father Mark and their own bishop usually smiled gentle blessings on everyone. Father Jerome did not look like a man who would understand the common failings of the congregation. He did not look like a man who would understand the meaning of the word mercy, or, for that matter, like a man who would forgive people their sins. Gwenn felt depressed, and though it was ridiculous, she felt as though Father Jerome had stolen the joy out of the day. He looked like a man who would steal the joy from everything.

  No one in the crowd was moving. Would they dare? No one so much as coughed. Father Jerome’s eyes shone like lamps over the people of Vannes. A sparrow chirped from its vantage point on a crossbeam, and a spasm crossed the monk’s severe features. Despite Gwenn’s growing sense of unease, an irreverent thought bubbled up. Rather than blessing the birds of the air, Father Jerome would have that sparrow in a pot, for daring to spoil his performance.

  ‘Brothers and sisters,’ he began, ‘we are gathered here on the day that Our Lad
y received the glad tidings from the Angel of the Lord...’

  Gwenn did not like the monk’s voice any more than his face. It was high for a man of his build and stature, high and scratchy; but she had to acknowledge it was penetrating, which for a preacher was no doubt a good thing. And with those beacons instead of eyes... Doubtless Father Jerome had chosen the right vocation, but she did not want to waste a promising spring morning listening to him. And the air, there not enough air in the nave for all these people.

  Gwenn looked at Irene, who ignored her. Her friend was already in the monk’s thrall.

  ‘Blessed art thou among women,’ Father Jerome intoned.

  Craning her neck, Gwenn tried to see how far it was to the door. There was nothing new in what the monk was saying. She’d known the Hail Mary by heart since she was small; her pious grandmother insisted she recite it several times a day.

  The door was wedged open, and bright, spring sunshine was lighting up the disgruntled expressions of several latecomers who were pressing into the nave. Why was everyone looking so dour this morning? It was almost as though they were frowning at her, so many of them seemed to be looking in her direction. With a sinking feeling, Gwenn scrutinised her neighbours’ faces. With the exception of Irene and the wimpled widow who was studiously ignoring her, they were frowning at her. Feeling stifled, Gwenn took a deep gulp of the rank, sweat-laden air. She caught sight of the same cold, dark eyes she had seen when she had first entered the nave, and a wave of nausea swept through her. She would have to get out into the fresh air of the Close.