The Stone Rose

by Carol Townend

  Raymond stared blankly at the parcel. ‘Why can’t you simply hand it over to Gwenn and have done, Grandmère? Why do I have to hide it?’

  ‘Because...because I want it out of here. As long as we have it with us, they’ll come looking for us. We’d not be left in peace. Without it, there’s a chance–’

  ‘They?’ Gwenn wondered. ‘Do you mean this Count de Roncier? I heard Sir Jean mention him, he’s behind this violence isn’t he?’

  Izabel ignored her, murmuring, ‘We’re in danger while it’s here.’

  ‘Danger? What danger?’ Raymond asked. ‘What haven’t you told us, Grandmama?’

  Izabel sank back onto Gwenn’s pallet, and fumbled for her granddaughter’s hand. ‘I can’t explain,’ she said, with a sharp glance at Raymond.

  ‘Grandmère, this is ridiculous. For Christ’s sake, what–?’

  ‘Raymond, I’ll thank you not to swear,’ Izabel said primly. ‘Will you help me or not?’

  ‘It must be some silly women’s secret,’ Raymond said, patronisingly, and when he saw a guilty spasm twist his grandmother’s face, he laughed. ‘I knew it!’

  ‘Raymond...’ Izabel’s voice was choked.

  ‘Oh, keep your secrets,’ he said, carelessly. ‘Relax, Grandmère, I’ll do as you ask. But I don’t see–’

  Izabel waved her arms at him. ‘You’re not expected to see. Just take it, and hide it, and be sure you tell Gwenn where to find it. Remember, I’m giving it to her, not to you. It belongs to her. You’ll do that for me? At first light, mind?’

  Raymond had intended going out before dawn in any case, for he had clandestine pleasures to pursue. He would not have to go out of his way to please his grandmother. ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Bless you, Raymond.’ Izabel yawned ostentatiously. ‘It is very late, my lad. I suggest we get what sleep we can, there’s not much of this night left.’

  The young man recognised finality when he heard it in his grandmother’s voice and padded softly to the door. ‘Good night, Grandmère, goodnight, Gwenn.’

  The latch rattled and Raymond was gone.

  ‘Men!’ Izabel muttered softly. ‘They’re all the same. We’ve aroused his curiosity now, my girl.’

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘He’ll be back in the morning, pestering us with questions. Never mind. He’s not as bad as most of them.’

  ‘You don’t like men much, do you, Grandmama?’

  Izabel chucked Gwenn under the chin. ‘I don’t hate them all. There was one once,’ her voice went soft and dreamy, ‘but now I can’t even see his face.’ She caught her breath, and finished briskly. ‘That was long before you were born. Past history, my dear.’

  ‘Tell me about him,’ Gwenn urged, not feeling at all sleepy. ‘Was it Gwionn, the man you married?’ Izabel tensed, and Gwenn knew by grandmother’s posture that the barriers were in place again.

  ‘No. Some wounds never heal.’ A firm hand was placed on Gwenn’s chest, and she was pushed onto her pillow. ‘Go to sleep, my dear. You need your rest.’

  ‘But, Grandmama–’

  ‘Sleep,’ Izabel insisted. ‘But remember, the Virgin is my legacy to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Grandmama,’ Gwenn said, aware that the statue was her grandmother’s most treasured possession. ‘Mama calls it the Stone Rose.’

  ‘I know. We’ll talk further on the morrow. Remember, that statue has been my strength and security for many a long year. Now it can be yours. I want to know you’re provided for. I know you’ll take care of Katarin.’ Lovingly, Izabel smoothed Gwenn’s coverlet into place.

  ‘Yes, Grandmama.’

  ‘You’ll have cause to thank me for it one day.’ Izabel said, smothering a yawn.

  ‘Thank you, Grandmama. I do love you.’ And then Gwenn shut her eyes lest she was treated to one of Izabel’s lectures.

  ‘God Bless you, my dear.’

  ***

  François de Roncier stood before the dying fire in the solar at Huelgastel and ran an exasperated hand through his cropped copper hair. He regarded his Breton Captain guardedly. ‘What is it, le Bret?’

  Having bearded the lion in his den, Alan saw no reason to beat about the bush. ‘Mon seigneur, I come on behalf of my company. The quarter day is here. I take it you’ll be honouring your debts?’

  ‘Naturally. The money’s in the vaults.’ The Count rubbed the side of his nose. ‘I’ll dispense it on the morrow, as soon as you have executed your commission.’

  Alan stared. ‘Mon seigneur, we have already executed our commission.’

  ‘Not quite, Captain.’ Count François gave a cold smile. ‘They remain in Vannes, do they not?’

  ‘I’ll warrant it won’t be for long. They’ll be gone within the week.’ A brief glance told Alan that this private family solar was more exotically furnished than the communal hall below. The lower half of the walls was decorated with a frieze of life-sized herons. Above the frieze, the stonework was painted and the pointing picked out in red. Tapestries adorned the upper walls, framed by an intricate array of roof beams, with bold multi-coloured chevrons drawing the eye the length of the beams from corbels to apex. Alan noticed the delicate glass in the Count’s hand, and the rich, ruby wine he was sipping. His lord lived well.

  ‘A week is too long,’ the Count said. ‘Captain, you’re to return to Vannes and see them off. I want you to execute,’ he put heavy emphasis on the word execute, ‘your commission as thoroughly as you are able. There’s not to be the slightest chance they’ll come back.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the door by which the Dowager Countess had left. ‘And I do not wish to be implicated. Understand?’

  ‘I’m not certain I do understand you, mon seigneur.’

  ‘You’ve wits, le Bret. Use them. I speak plainly.’

  Alan le Bret’s grey eyes bored into the Count’s. François waited, hoping his captain was not going to be difficult. He considered this a trifling matter to be finished with swiftly. He could not afford any marks on his slate when he approached the French King with his proposals. An aspiring Duke must have no family skeletons lurking in closets.

  ‘Well, Captain?’

  ‘If I understand you correctly, mon seigneur, I’m bound to say I like it not.’

  ‘You’re not paid to like it!’ First his mother had been putting obstacles in his path, and now this presumptuous mercenary was pitching in with his pennyworth. ‘Mon Dieu, you’re paid to obey!’

  ‘I’m not paid at all,’ le Bret said, dry as dust. ‘Mon seigneur, you know very well that my men are paid by the quarter, not by the commission. And the quarter day has passed. Our money is due now.’

  There was a short silence, and the two men circled each other, wary as dogs with their hackles raised.

  François decided he would not like to confront this man in open combat, when his true nature would be unleashed. Le Bret was a determined, ruthless man. A calculating man. Could he be bought, he wondered?

  Alan broke the silence. ‘So Count François de Roncier does not deal honourably with hired men.’

  François looked down his nose. ‘Honour? What would a peasant like you know of honour? You hire yourself out to the highest bidder. You care for nothing but money.’

  Le Bret’s lips curved in a mocking travesty of a smile. ‘Money is reliable, mon seigneur. You know where you are with money. Money does not break its bond.’

  ‘Insolence!’ The Count’s heavy jowls purpled with rage.

  ‘I have already reminded you, mon seigneur,’ Alan went on, inexorably, ‘that payment is due by the quarter, not by the commission. As an honourable nobleman, I’m sure you will appreciate the necessity of settling your debts. You wouldn’t want to lose a good company to another employer, would you?’

  The veins in de Roncier’s neck stood out like dark cords. ‘How dare you threaten me? I’ll teach you respect for your betters.’ He dived for his sword which lay where Lena had placed it on the window seat and snatched it free of its scabbard.

&nbs
p; Standing his ground, Alan spread his arms wide. ‘Here I am, mon seigneur, at your mercy. This will be the only chance you get. Make the most of it.’

  The two men glared at each other, the one apoplectic with rage, the other infuriatingly, insufferably cool.

  The Count’s sword quivered. ‘Merde! Your death solves nothing.’ Dropping his eyes to the tapestry his mother had been working on, he sheathed his weapon. ‘For my mother’s sake, I’ll not shed blood in her solar.’

  Alan swallowed down a scathing reply. He had taken a risk with de Roncier’s temper, but he had been fairly confident that he would not have the stomach for killing an unarmed man. The Count hired others to do his dirty work.

  ‘Look here, le Bret,’ de Roncier had recovered his composure, ‘you’re a good soldier. I know the rank and file respect you, and I don’t want trouble with the men. I’m willing to add half a pound of purest English silver to your pay if you finish the job. You can have it tomorrow.’

  ‘Half a pound?’ Alan looked deep into his lord’s hazel eyes. If de Roncier was trying bribery, he must be desperate. In Duke’s Tavern, a sergeant had revealed that the Herevis were distant kin to de Roncier. It must be some ancient quarrel over birthright for it to matter so much.

  ‘Half a pound,’ the Count confirmed with a confident grin.

  The form of a young girl in a vivid blue dress sprang into Alan’s mind. Ned was not the only one to dislike this commission. ‘I’m uneasy about this, mon seigneur. It’s a women’s household.’

  ‘There’s a lad–’

  ‘That one!’ Alan dismissed Raymond Herevi with a scornful wave of his hand. ‘He’d be no more use in combat than a lute player. I’ll wager he’s never wielded a knife on anything more lively than the meat on his trencher.’

  ‘Don’t you turn womanish on me, le Bret.’ The Count thudded a heavy fist on the table, and the costly Eastern wine glasses shivered and tinkled. ‘You are beginning to sound like your lily-livered kinsman, Fletcher. What’s his problem? Is he a coward?’

  Alan recalled the gangling colt of a boy who had trailed faithfully after him when he had been forced to leave England looking for work, because mercenaries were banned in England. Ned had been all eyes and legs, and it could not have been easy for him to leave everything he held dear to follow his older cousin. ‘No, mon seigneur, Ned Fletcher’s no coward.’

  ‘I’ll have his tongue nailed to the whipping post so he can’t infect any more of the troop with his high-minded tattle. I’m surprised at you, le Bret. I’d have thought you would be immune.’

  ‘It is nothing to do with Fletcher,’ Alan said, though privately he wondered if there was a germ of truth in what de Roncier was saying. He did feel torn. He needed the money – who didn’t? – and normally never thought twice about what he did to get it. But when Ned had spoken out, Alan had taken a long, hard look at his lord. And if he had summed up the position truly, the man was no more than a blustering coward out to steal someone else’s birthright.

  Alan was no saint that he could sit in judgement over others. He had smothered his conscience years ago in the need for coin. How much lower than that could you sink? That he needed the money was irrelevant. Did his need justify the shedding of blood, the killing of women and children? Alan was tired of dancing to de Roncier’s tune. He wanted out, and here was de Roncier offering to increase his pay. He wished his conscience had remained dormant a little while longer. Perhaps he’d take the extra money and push on to greener pastures...

  ‘What about St Clair?’ Alan asked. ‘Don’t you anticipate a fight while he protects his woman and children?’

  De Roncier’s hair gleamed like fire in the cresset lights. ‘St Clair hasn’t got enough guards to keep the house under surveillance all the time,’ he said. ‘Besides, he won’t be expecting an outright attack on the house.’

  Alan brought his brows together. ‘Mon seigneur, I don’t think I’d recommend an outright attack. It’s too obvious. Someone’s bound to recognise–’

  The Count swung round, picked up a solid, brass-topped poker and stirred the fire into life. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘And afterwards, mon seigneur,’ Alan pressed on, ‘don’t you think St Clair will retaliate? Yolande Herevi means much to him. I’ve heard he’s faithful to her.’

  Dropping the poker against the iron firedogs with a clang, Count François let out an ugly laugh. ‘The woman’s his harlot, le Bret, his harlot. What man would risk starting a war – and that’s what it would amount to – over a whore?’

  Alan looked unconvinced.

  ‘Remember that half pound of silver, Captain. Can you think of an easier way of earning it?’

  Alan couldn’t.

  ‘All you have to do is see them off.’ The Count raised a russet brow and slapped Alan on the back with a false bonhomie that jarred more than the gesture. ‘Think of it, Captain. Think of the girls...’

  ‘I’ve better uses for money than to waste it on whores,’ Alan declared flatly. ‘But your offer is tempting.’ Half a pound of silver, plus his pay, was a fortune to a mercenary. He could live off the coined silver for a long time, but what counted most was that de Roncier’s money would give him the freedom to choose a better master. Two years ago, when he had joined de Roncier’s troop, he and Ned had been desperate. He’d have signed his soul to anyone. But with English minted pennies swelling his purse, he’d be rich enough to pick and choose.

  ‘You’ll do it?’ de Roncier asked. ‘I’ll pay you tomorrow, when it’s over. I’m taking a strongbox to the tavern. I’ll dole out there, when I hear they’ve...gone.’

  ‘And my troop?’

  ‘Aye, fry your eyes, I’ll pay your troop too.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ And, saluting the man who would be his lord only until the sun set the following night, Alan marched briskly from the solar.

  François let his breath go on a sigh. Captain le Bret was an awkward man, and he seemed to have misjudged him. At times the fellow was as hard as tempered steel, but at other times...

  Absently François refilled his glass. Le Bret was an enigma. But one thing was clear, he was single-minded; he had come in to get his back pay, and he had left with exactly what he came for – and more. ‘He’s an opportunist,’ François murmured, ‘and as tough as they come.’

  He sipped his wine and, grimacing, deposited the glass on the pewter tray. The bottle had been open to the air too long; the contents had soured, and set his teeth on edge. Heading for his bed and his wife, he wondered how long Alan le Bret had been stationed outside the solar door. How much had he heard? There was no telling, but perhaps it would be prudent to despatch Malait with him on the morrow. François nodded to himself. He would charge the Norseman with finding the statue his mother coveted. He need make no mention of the gem. One could not trust routiers. The less they knew, the better.

  Wondering if Eleanor would be asleep, François mounted the spiral stairs to his turret bedchamber.

  Chapter Six

  The bottom of the fishing boat was wet with a combination of dew and seawater that soaked through cloak and breeches to Raymond’s bones. He had counted on being able to sleep on the pre-dawn trip across the bay, but his clothes were too damp, he felt cold, and to add to his miseries the Small Sea was choppy and the rocking motion of the boat gave him mal de mer.

  ‘How much longer, Edouarz?’ Raymond groaned, lying back so he could try counting stars and forget his nausea.

  The closed lantern attached to the mast let out a few shreds of light – just enough to reach the face of the man at the tiller, the boat’s owner. Edouarz glanced briefly at his passenger, and bit back a grin on seeing the boy’s tight lips and greenish tinge. He tipped his head back to examine the sail of his tiny vessel. The patched canvas bellied out with the wind. ‘Half an hour, maybe longer.’

  Raymond moaned. The stars danced dizzily. The lights of other fishing vessels returning home with their catch danced too. His stomach heaved.

  ‘Seems
a long time, does it, young sir?’ Edouarz teased. Another groan. The fisherman jerked his thumb at a dark, low-lying mass on their left. ‘That’s Monk’s island,’ he announced. ‘With this wind, we’ll be at Locmariaquer in no time.’

  An hour later, Raymond’s feet had been planted firmly on terra firma, his stomach was calmer, and he was in a better state of mind, having persuaded a carter to give him a ride as far as the dolmen. That’s where his rendezvous with the girl was.

  The carter was heading inland to the market with last night’s catch of mackerel, a basket of crabs, and some shellfish. But the fish smelt high. The waggon rattled over the dirt road. Poised on the edge of the tailboard with his long legs dangling, Raymond pressed one hand tightly over his nose, but the stink was persistent and to his dismay his stomach began churning all over again. His brown tunic would never be quite the same again. How long would the reek cling to his person? Anna, the girl he was intent on meeting, might not be so ardent if he stank of rotting fish.

  ‘This stuff is crawling!’ Raymond yelled over the clatter of the wheels.

  ‘Eh?’ The carter had a solid back.

  ‘Edouarz has pulled the wool over your eyes with this lot,’ Raymond said. ‘Last night’s catch could not possibly smell like this.’

  The carter lifted lumpy shoulders and stolidly kept eyes and face towards the road in front. His monotone voice floated back to Raymond, ‘A bargain’s a bargain.’

  ‘No one will buy them,’ Raymond predicted with the arrogant confidence of one who has never been reduced to eating second-rate food.

  ‘They will. They’re cheap, see?’

  The crack of the carter’s whip was loud in the dawn hush. ‘They might pay more if they were fresh,’ Raymond said, pegging his nose.

  ‘Can’t afford it, young sir.’

  Raymond shrugged, and kept his smile to himself. The fellow’s mind was closed and Raymond found his narrow, peasant doggedness amusing. The man had probably never changed his views since birth, and would cling to them, blindly, till Doomsday.