‘Mmm?’ Alan opened one eye.
‘St Clair’s asked me to stay.’
Alan opened his other eye. ‘He has? In what capacity?’
‘Man-at-arms, initially.’
‘You’ve accepted?’
‘Yes. Alan?’
‘Mmm?’
He’s offered you a place. He needs more freemen and said to tell you that he’ll employ you when your leg is healed. He’s grateful to us.’
Perhaps there was a God in Heaven after all. It appeared he had not ruined his chances of easing his way into the household. He may yet find the gem and carry it away with him. He tried not to look too enthusiastic. Dimly, he recalled telling Ned he had greener pastures to go to. He must tread cautiously, for if he accepted St Clair’s offer immediately, Ned would know he was up to something. He yawned. ‘He did, did he?’
‘Go on, Alan. It won’t kill you to stop here. Sir Jean seems a reasonable man. We may find ourselves crossing swords with de Roncier, but if you’re afraid–’
‘Have you marked how many men St Clair has? What would the odds be if it came to a straight fight between St Clair and our old friends?’
‘Not good,’ Ned admitted soberly. ‘They are in great disarray, with not above half a dozen men, and two of them are no more than babes. One is in his dotage.’
‘Pitiful. I think that I’ll stay,’ Alan replied, illogically.
‘Why this sudden change of heart? The odds are appalling, and I know you only take calculated risks.’
Alan grinned, and thought of the gem. What might it be worth? ‘Every now and then, Edward, my boy, I relish a challenge. Besides, St Clair’s brought a palatable wine with him. Did you not notice?’
Pleased, but none the wiser, Ned gave his invalid cousin a bemused smile. He was fond of Alan, and had always admired him, but he had never understood him. Despite his surname, Alan had been born in England, in Yorkshire. It was Alan’s father who was the true Breton born and bred. As well as being his kinsman, Alan was the only other person in Kermaria who could speak fluent English. Ned’s French was acceptable, and his Breton was improving daily, but it meant something to be able to converse with his cousin in his native tongue. The link between them may have become tenuous over the years, but Ned was pleased he’d not be stranded with foreigners.
‘How long do you think till you’ll be up and about?’
His cousin spread his hands. ‘Who knows? A month, if they feed us right and I heal quickly. Six weeks otherwise.’
The flaxen head nodded. ‘Lucky for the lass that we were heading up her street.’
‘Luck?’ Alan was examining his bitten nails and the suggestion of a smile flickered across his lips. It had been the thought of the mysterious statue and what it might contain that had prompted him to suggest they take that route. Only when they had reached the well and Alan had seen the smoke had he had realised that Otto had beaten him to it. ‘Luck? I wouldn’t call it luck exactly.’
Ned dragged his fair brows together. ‘What? Oh. I see what you mean. Not lucky for you with that leg. But you must agree, Alan, that destiny had a hand in today’s events.’ Intercepting a quizzical look, he added, ‘What else could it be but destiny when we’d finished our service with de Roncier? We needed employment, and now,’ a wave of his hand included the hall, ‘thanks to your bravery, we find ourselves neatly settled.’
‘Destiny had nothing to do with it,’ Alan said, shortly. He found his cousin’s irrepressible faith wearing at times.
‘God then.’
Alan rolled his grey eyes at the rafters. Not another. He had had his fill with the girl. One dose of an innocent in search of meaning was more than enough for one day. ‘Shut up, Ned,’ he said irritably, and settled himself down into his blankets. ‘I’m for sleeping. Shouldn’t you be on guard duty?’
***
Izabel Herevi had been laid to rest, and in the hall the funeral breakfast was over.
Seated at the board, Yolande Herevi turned lacklustre eyes on her lover and tried to be practical. ‘Jean, I’d like to see the undercroft cleared today. We need an inventory of the stores taken so we can send for supplies from Vannes. Gwenn knows what needs to be done, but she’ll need help.’
Jean nodded, realising that it would be good for all of them to work hard that day. It would take their minds off their grief. ‘She can have Raymond.’
Raymond was idly carving a piece of wheat bread into a ball. He groaned, and flung down his eating knife. ‘Cleaning? Me? But that’s women’s work.’
Jean’s brows snapped together. ‘You’ll do as you’re bidden, my boy. There are heavy barrels down there. You don’t expect your sister to move them on her own, do you?’
‘No, sir.’ Raymond picked up his knife, stuck it in his belt, and rose reluctantly.
‘You can take that new lad, Ned Fletcher. He’ll lend a hand.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Raymond beckoned Ned Fletcher over.
Yolande watched the young Saxon that Jean had sworn in the night before and wondered about him and his companion, Alan le Bret. This fair one looked as though he could be trusted. She watched him spring to her daughter’s side, ready and eager to lift the trapdoor for her. There was no deviousness in that young man’s nature, she was sure of that. She would raise no objections to his being part of Jean’s company. But she could not say the same of Alan le Bret in view of what Raymond had told her of his possible involvement with the mob.
Alan’s pallet was pulled up before the fire, and at the moment he was watching Gwenn as she held a taper to a candle lantern. Yolande did not feel competent to assess his character. She was grateful to him for saving her daughter, but there was something about him that made her uneasy. However, he could not do much harm in his present condition. He could stay while he mended, but she would watch him like a hawk, and at the first sign of trouble she would have Jean remove him.
The wick of the candle Gwenn was lighting was damp and it was a moment before it sputtered into life. Ned held out his square, blunt-fingered hand. ‘Let me take that, mistress,’ he said. ‘I’ll go first. You never know what might lurk below.’ He took the lantern and peered down the steps.
‘I expect there’ll be rats, Gwenn said matter-of-factly as Ned began descending, ‘but I’m not afraid of rats.’ Tucking up her skirts, she picked her way after him with care, for the steps were masked by shadows and coated with a slippery film of damp moss. Raymond dragged his heels.
Halfway into the shadowy depths Ned stopped and rolled large eyes at Gwenn. He lowered his voice as though he were afraid. ‘There might be worse than rats in here...’
Gwenn laughed, rather to her surprise. That morning, when they had buried her grandmother, she could not have imagined laughing in a hundred years. ‘Worse than rats?’ she said, and feigned fear.
‘There might be evil spirits from the past,’ Ned made his voice hollow and it echoed round the stone vaults, ‘waiting for a young maiden, ready to put her under some terrible enchantment.’
Gwenn let out a mock shriek.
‘But I’ll save you, mistress, never fear.’
Ned leapt lightly down the last of the steps and as he turned to see her safely down, Gwenn’s heart warmed to him.
Raymond joined them. He had brought another lantern and cast disparaging eyes around the undercroft. It was a cool, rectangular room, divided in two by a row of heavy round pillars. It had barrel vaulting. Along the walls, rows of storage jars were buried under tangles of cobwebs. A dusting of grit had fallen down from the ceiling. In the corners, where the lantern light could not reach, there was a scuffling sound. There really were rats down here, and mice. They would have to be ferreted out.
Raymond’s nose wrinkled in a lordly sneer. ‘Phew, it stinks! A fellow can hardly breathe.’
Gwenn found herself exchanging amused glances with Ned. ‘It’s been closed up for years, Raymond. What do you expect? Now the trapdoor’s open, it will soon freshen up.’
‘It might be an idea
to have air vents made,’ Ned suggested, examining the storeroom walls. ‘I should think here,’ he shouldered a disintegrating casket aside, and indicated a spot near the top of the wall where the vaulting began, ‘and here.’
‘That sounds a very good idea, Ned,’ Gwenn said, smiling. ‘We can mention it to Sir Jean.’
Ned smiled back at her. Raymond, she noticed, was moodily tapping a wine barrel. ‘Empty,’ he pronounced in gloomy accents. He moved on to the next, and tapped that. ‘This is empty too.’
Gwenn and Ned grinned at each other, and Gwenn’s heart lightened. It would be good to have someone near her age to talk to apart from Raymond.
‘Where do we start, mistress?’ Ned asked.
‘More lanterns I think, and brooms. Then we must sort out–’
‘Hell,’ Raymond cut in, ‘there’s no wine here at all, save what Sir Jean brought with him.’
‘Isn’t there, Raymond?’ Gwenn said, sweetly. ‘Then hadn’t you better lift those empty caskets out of here for scalding and repair? They can be refilled then.’
Reluctant to take orders from his sister, Raymond moved slowly. Ned was there before him, a casket under either arm as he headed up the stairs. ‘I’ll fetch more light, mistress,’ he said cheerfully. Raymond would not be much help that day, Gwenn realised, but Ned Fletcher would, and willingly too. She liked him, very much.
***
One fine morning about two weeks later, Gwenn was leaving the hall to lay fresh flowers on her grandmother’s grave, when Alan addressed her from his place by the fire. ‘Mistress Gwenn?’
‘Yes?’ Curious, for the routier never spoke to her except when she was tending his leg, Gwenn drifted over.
‘I was wondering if you could spare a moment or two,’ he said courteously.
‘Is your leg troubling you? The bandages chafe?’
‘No, not at all.’ He raised smoky eyes to hers. ‘Would you mind if I talked to you about your grandmother, mistress, or would it upset you?’
‘It wouldn’t upset me.’
‘Good. I’ve been thinking.’ His lips curved wryly. ‘Lying here all day, I have little else to occupy my time, and there’s something I’ve been itching to ask you.’
‘Yes?’ Gwenn felt shy and gawky when Alan smiled at her.
‘In Vannes, on the day of the fire, your grandmother made mention of a stone rose. What is it, mistress?’
‘A statue of Our Lady.’
Alan let his breath out in a soft sigh. He had thought as much. He threw another smile at the girl, who seemed to like them, and watched a delightful flush steal across her cheeks. ‘Was it precious to her?’
‘I suppose so.’ Gwenn’s voice went croaky. She would have liked to ask why her grandmother’s statue fascinated him so, but she seemed to have lost control of her tongue. When Alan le Bret smiled, his eyes were as clear as a mountain brook dancing over grey stones, yet disturbing, too.
‘You are sorry that a keepsake of your grandmother’s was destroyed in the fire?’
‘It wasn’t destroyed. But what does that matter? Grandmama’s dead. What good did the Stone Rose do her?’
Alan clicked his tongue. ‘Careful, sweet Blanche, that borders on blasphemy. Your mother’s entered the hall, and she must have heard you, because she’s frowning.’
Yolande beckoned her daughter. ‘Gwenn, come upstairs.’
***
‘Here.’ Yolande waved Gwenn onto her bed and drew the dingy curtain across the alcove’s entrance. ‘Sit down. It’s high time you and I had a little talk.’
Thinking that she must have committed some sin and was about to be rebuked for it, Gwenn scoured her mind for her misdeed. ‘My apologies, Mama. Should I not have been talking to Alan le Bret?’
Yolande touched her daughter’s arm. ‘Naturally, you must converse with the man seeing as you have taken him under your wing.’
‘I felt obliged, Mama, because he saved me, and it would be churlish to refuse to speak to him.’
Accepting this, Yolande inclined her head. ‘I know. You are a girl who likes to honour her debts, but I trust you are not blind to that man’s nature.’
‘He’s a mercenary. As is his kinsman, Ned Fletcher.’
Yolande moved her face to within a hand span of her daughter’s. ‘Aye. Just so. But I do not think that Alan le Bret is cast in the same mould as Ned Fletcher, and I’d be grateful if you would tell me what you were talking about when I stumbled across you just now.’
Gwenn lifted finely structured hands. ‘Nothing much, Mama. He was asking about the Stone Rose.’
Her mother’s green gaze sharpened. ‘Was he, indeed? How interesting.’ Yolande rose, and drawing back the curtain screen, peered into the solar. It was empty. ‘Listen attentively, Gwenn, I’ve something to discuss with you, and I want you to swear to me, on your honour, which I know means much to you, that you’ll never breathe a word of this to anyone, not even to your father or brother.’
Round-eyed, Gwenn stared at her mother.
‘This secret is not one for men,’ Yolande murmured. ‘Do I have your promise?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘Good. Now hear me out, and afterwards I’ll tell you my plan for ridding this house of the vermin that has slunk into it unasked.’
***
Later, Gwenn escaped to tend her grandmother’s grave.
On the glebeland, sparrows were quarrelling in an old yew tree, and in one of the apple trees which edged the graveyard a blackbird was singing. Gwenn plucked the faded primroses and cowslips from their pot and arranged fresh blossoms, turning her mother’s words over in her mind. All at once, a prickling at the back of her neck warned her that she was being observed. Out of the tail of her eye she saw someone slip out of the chapel to crouch in the shadows of the porch. She caught sight of long, straggling hair as yellow as the cowslips in her grandmother’s vase, and gained an impression of muscle-bound bulk. Her stomach knotted. Imprinted in her mind was the face and form of the Norseman, and though Gwenn had not seen this prowler’s features, she knew him to be male, and that glimpse, brief as it had been, had reminded her of him.
‘Who’s there?’ Her voice was sharp with alarm.
The figure shrank back. With slow deliberation, Gwenn climbed to her feet and shook out the skirts of her gown. Ned Fletcher had hair as bright as that when the sun was on it, she reminded herself. But the man in the doorway had been standing in the shade, and Ned Fletcher did not wear his hair so long.
The blackbird stopped singing.
As fast as her feet would carry her, Gwenn sped across the grass and through the arch in the graveyard wall. The iron gate clanged behind her, and she did not pause for breath until she had scrambled up the steps and catapulted into the hall.
At that hour, it was filled with people. Her mother was addressing Joel, the cook. Her father and brother were deep in conversation at one end of a trestle, and at the other sat Alan le Bret. He had been given employment teaching one of the village freemen recently drafted into Jean’s service how to keep an edge on a sword. A whetstone had been brought up from the vault, and a pair of crutches was handy at his elbow.
‘Where’s Fletcher?’ Gwenn demanded of the room at large.
‘Here, Mistress Gwenn.’ Ned Fletcher detached himself from the knot of men by the fireplace. ‘What’s amiss?’
If...if you’re here,’ she stretched her eyes wide, ‘who’s sneaking around the chapel?’
Jean and Raymond jumped up, and Jean barked out a series of commands. ‘Raymond, take Fletcher and search the chapel. Take your arms, and bring any loiterer here. At the double. Move!’
Raymond and Ned clattered out.
Yolande had assumed Alan le Bret’s interest in the Stone Rose was proof he was in league with de Roncier, but she was suddenly assailed by doubts. Hand smoothing her high forehead, she thought rapidly. Was le Bret working for himself, or was he feeding information to de Roncier’s scavengers piece by piece? For an instant the mercena
ry’s swarthy features had registered surprise – he had been as startled as any by Gwenn’s announcement. Now he was sitting stiffly at the board, head cocked to one side, listening. How slow I have been, Yolande chastised herself. It was plain as a pikestaff that he would only be working for himself. Aye, that glove fitted him more closely. Alan le Bret would own no man his master for long. ‘Count de Roncier is having us watched,’ Yolande said, voicing the words which hung on everyone’s lips. And for the routier’s benefit she added a plaintive, ‘Oh, Jean, will this nightmare never end?’
‘Peace, woman.’ Jean turned to his daughter, who was gazing at her mother in the oddest manner. ‘What precisely did you see, Gwenn?’
‘Someone lurking in the chapel porch.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘No...at least... I couldn’t be sure. He was a big man, with hanks of straw-coloured hair. I...I got the impression he’d been there for some time. I hoped it was Fletcher. But–’
‘Fletcher’s been here this past half hour.’
‘Sir,’ Gwenn’s voice came out shrill, and catching the mercenary’s gaze on her, she toned it down, ‘I pray I’m mistaken, but I’m afraid it might have been the Norseman I saw on the day of the fire. Remember? I told you about him.’
Yolande gasped and crossed herself. ‘I knew it,’ she said, in accents of doom. ‘De Roncier will be content with nothing less than our blood.’
Raymond charged through the door. ‘Nothing,’ he announced, with a studied glance in Gwenn’s direction. ‘The bird, if there was one, has flown.’
‘There was someone!’ Gwenn burst out. ‘There was!’
The knight strode to the door. ‘I’ll have a scout around myself. Fletcher, accompany me.’
Gwenn’s brown eyes burned as she looked at her brother. ‘Why don’t you believe me, Raymond?’
Raymond did not disbelieve his sister, in fact he believed her only too well. But he loved Gwenn, and had observed the invisible scars the fire had left on her. Her confidence wavered whenever she left the hall. She walked Kermaria with fear perched on her shoulders. Raymond wanted to free her from her terrors, even if that meant lying to her. ‘I’m sure you think you saw someone, Gwenn.’
The Stone Rose Page 14
