The Stone Rose

by Carol Townend

  A strand of silky hair had twined round his fingers, and Alan realised he had been caressing Gwenn’s head. He snatched his hand away, and in so doing woke her.

  Dark, trusting eyes met his. ‘Is it time to go, Alan le Bret?’

  Alan looked at her. She smiled again. And before he could think about it, Alan had put his hand under her chin and brought her mouth round. He kissed her. Her lips were soft and trembled under his. Alan’s eyes closed, and slowly he deepened the kiss, taking her startled gasp into his mouth. He did not think she had been kissed properly before, for at first she resisted opening to him. A small hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he was absurdly pleased when she did not push him away. All at once she seemed to understand what he was about, and her mouth opened. Her innocence enchanted him – she was quite the sweetest thing he had ever kissed.

  Before was utterly disarmed, Alan pulled himself free of her, and pushed himself upright. He had to clear his throat, and force himself not to look at those dark, trusting eyes, which by now would be full of bewilderment. ‘Aye, come on. It’s time to go.’

  ***

  ‘Have a drink, Tomaz.’ Otto indicated a brimming pitcher of wine, recently shipped in from Bordeaux. ‘I’ve something to show you.’

  The goldsmith’s eyes gleamed as brightly as the lamps in the Ship Inn. ‘Bless you,’ he said and, giving a resounding belch in appreciation of the routier’s generosity, he poured the blood-red liquid into his leather tankard.

  The Ship Inn was perched on the edge of the quayside in the fisherman’s quarter of Vannes, and in its rare, quiet moments, it was possible to hear the gentle lapping of the sea against the harbour wall and the creaking hawsers of vessels tied up for the night. Tonight’s quiet moment was far off though, for the night fishermen were busy filling their bellies with the various brews that they swore kept out the cold. It would be an hour before they were gone; an hour before the Ship Inn would fall silent enough for someone with sharp ears to hear either slapping waves or groaning ropes.

  The goldsmith drank lustily. ‘Ah, that’s good.’ He scrubbed his mouth with his hairy hand. ‘Out with it, Malait. Have you more ill-gotten gains for sale? You must have taken to robbing the dead, you bring me more than anyone else.’

  Accepting this tribute as no less than his due, a brief grin flashed across Otto’s lips. The two men often met, for Tomaz bought whatever Otto offered without asking questions, and they did a roaring trade in stolen goods. ‘Here,’ Otto dropped the stone into the goldsmith’s waiting palm. ‘What is it?’

  Unhooking one of the overhead lanterns, Tomaz placed it on the table. As he stared at the diamond-shaped crystal, his dark brows twitched.

  ‘Is it a diamond?’

  ‘A diamond?’ The goldsmith’s shoulders began to shake, and he dissolved into barely smothered laughter. ‘Fancy you bringing me one of these, and not knowing...’

  Malait clenched his fist.

  Holding the crystal between finger and thumb, the goldsmith prudently swallowed his amusement and held the stone to the light. He did not want to offend the hot-headed Norseman, or lose a good source of income. ‘See how cloudy it is? There are countless flaws. And look, here’s a chip.’

  ‘Aye. But what is its worth?’

  ‘It’s a sunstone. I could smash it with my heel.’

  ‘Its worth, Tomaz.’

  ‘Paol could answer that.’ Tomaz tossed the sunstone into the lap of a fisherman whose ancient back was bent as a bow, and whose skin was as brown and tough as the leather of Otto’s boots. ‘What value would you give this, Paol?’

  Paol picked up the sunstone, glanced at it, and his mouth split in a gummy smile. ‘Wouldn’t give you an oyster for it.’

  ‘What!’ Otto shot to his feet.

  ‘It’s a sunstone, Malait,’ Tomaz said. ‘Your ancestors would have fought tooth and nail for one, for their ships.’

  ‘Ships?’ Otto repeated, dazedly. Bitter anger flared in his breast. Alan le Bret had taken him for a half-wit.

  ‘Aye. Might be useful out of sight of land. Round the coast? Worthless.’

  ‘Worthless?’ Here he was, thinking he’d never have to work again, and all the while Alan le Bret must have known the damned thing’s true value. Why else would he have relinquished it so tamely? One question remained. Had there been anything else in the statue, or had le Bret made a fool of him on that score too?

  Tomaz smirked. ‘Imagine a Viking not knowing a sunstone when he sees one.’ Then, seeing the Norseman’s visage grow black as a smith’s, he curbed his mirth.

  ‘God rot you, le Bret,’ Otto spat through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll spill your guts.’ He focused on the goldsmith whose mouth was curving despite himself. ‘What are you laughing at, Tomaz?’

  ‘Nothing. Have another drink, my friend.’

  ‘Give me that thing, old man.’ Otto held out his hand. He would have to return to de Roncier; the sunstone was some sort of proof that there was no jewel. And by the Bones of Christ, Otto thought, it had better be the gem that the Countess had been hot for, and not the statue. If the Count’s mother coveted the statue, he’d be lucky if he was put to cleaning the castle midden.

  Tomaz stared pointedly at the pitcher of Bordeaux. ‘What about the wine?’

  ‘You drink it, and I hope it chokes you,’ Otto said. He rose and stalked into the dark.

  ***

  At that moment, Alan was travelling on horseback along La Rue Richemont in the company of Ned. It was a broad highway, wide enough for several knights to ride abreast, and it was easy to follow because the moonlight made rocks and road shimmer.

  ‘Where are you bound, Alan?’

  ‘East gate.’

  ‘Won’t it be secure at this hour?’

  ‘They’ll let me in.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ned looked puzzled. ‘Alan?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘If you’re so set on getting a fortune, why didn’t you desert Mistress Gwenn and take off with her mare? You would have got yourself two horses that way. This way you get nothing, for I’m to take yours back to St Clair’s stables.’

  Alan couldn’t answer Ned’s question. All he knew was that when he and the girl had arrived at the crossroads, he had found himself spurring on to the manor alongside her. And when they had got there, she had kept faith with him. She had not tattled about his attempt to steal the non-existent gemstone, or his kissing her. He shrugged. ‘By the Rood, I don’t know. It must have been a momentary lapse. You’ll not hold it against me, surely?’

  Ned was accustomed to Alan’s warped humour, and he greeted this with a laugh. ‘No. But it made me think, that’s all. There might be some hope for you. Alan?’

  ‘Stop prattling, will you, Ned? You make my head ache. You’re worse than any maid.’

  Smiling, Ned obliged.

  Alan could see a pale flickering of lights in front of them. Below the lights there was a long, thin, winding darkness which he knew was the wooden wall encircling the port. After riding some way in silence, he said, ‘Our ways will part at the gate.’

  ‘Aye, so you mentioned before. Where will you go?’

  ‘I’ve a mind to seek out our noble Duke.’

  ‘What? Brittany himself? I understood he was in Rennes.’

  ‘You were misinformed,’ Alan said, his mind on the black and white of Duke Geoffrey’s ermine that he had seen that morning in Locmariaquer. He’d wasted enough of his life on the intrigues of petty lordlings. He wanted to move on to higher things.

  ‘Alan, why don’t you reconsider–?’

  ‘Don’t sing that old ballad, Ned,’ Alan said wearily, rubbing the thigh of his mended leg. ‘The melody sickens me.’

  ‘You’ll regret it.’

  Alan laughed shortly. ‘I’ve fatter fish to fry.’

  ‘You’re a heartless dog,’ Ned murmured, without heat.

  ‘Not quite, else I’d have been long gone. Here.’ Alan came to a halt and swung himself out of the saddle. He tossed his moun
t’s reins at Ned and heaved his pack from the animal’s back. ‘You can lead this bag of bones back to the shack that St Clair calls his stable. I’ll walk the rest of the way. Fare you well, Ned. I should think you’ll do well with Sir Jean.’

  Ned clutched his cousin’s reins and gulped down a constriction in his windpipe. ‘God speed, Alan. Will I see you again?’

  ‘I should think so,’ Alan answered carelessly. ‘I know where to find you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Alan shouldered his pack, sketched Ned a mocking bow, and turned his face towards the wooden palisade.

  ***

  Marie de Roncier was breaking her fast in the hall of Huelgastel. Seated at the head of the table beside her son, she tipped the sunstone from one dry palm to the other as though it scorched her. A silver-topped cane lay within reach on the trestle.

  Weeks earlier, when news had reached her of her sister’s death, the Dowager Countess had been overcome with guilt. If she had stayed her son’s impetuous hand, if she had not demanded the statue, her crazed sister Izabel would yet be alive. However, in the days that had followed, Marie had stopped chastising herself. Life was easier when she turned her back on her uneasy conscience. She flung the sunstone on the table with a crack. ‘My thanks, Malait, for bringing us this relic from the past, but I asked for the Virgin.’ Had Izabel died to protect a glass pebble? It looked as though her informants had been right, her sister’s wits must have gone at the end.

  ‘You see, Maman,’ the Count said. ‘The diamond only had form in old wives’ minds.’

  ‘You are insolent, François,’ Marie said, frostily.

  ‘No, Maman, practical.’ He smiled. ‘Honestly, accepting there was a jewel – which I doubt – is it likely they retained it all these years?’

  Relieved to find the wind in this quarter, Otto took a pace towards the Dowager Countess. ‘If there had been anything of value, madame, I’m sure Alan le Bret would have known.’

  Regally, Marie waved him out. ‘You may leave us.’

  François booted the door shut after his captain. ‘Well, ma mère? You advocate that I do nothing, I expect?’

  Marie did not want any more blood on her hands. ‘Do St Clair and his brood of bastards threaten you?’ she asked, investing her voice with as much scorn as she could.

  ‘Advise me.’

  Marie’s dark face lighted. ‘With pleasure, François.’ Her Robert, God rest him, had often asked her advice, she liked being consulted by her menfolk. ‘Stay your hand and let matters rest. If you act, you acknowledge St Clair as a threat. And that would be tantamount to admitting you occupy shaky ground – it would be a tactical error. The man is weak, François; weak-minded, and weak in manpower. He’ll never be a real danger.’

  ‘Suppose he marries Yolande Herevi?’

  ‘He won’t. I’ve told you before, even that man wouldn’t stoop to marry his concubine. Don’t thrust a stick in a wasps’ nest.’

  François rubbed his red cheeks and looked dubious. ‘I’d be happier if the nest was completely burned out.’

  Marie grew pale. ‘No, François.’ It was not easy for her to plead, but she reached a hand towards her son. ‘Enough is enough. Please.’

  François held his mother’s gaze for a heartbeat or two. ‘If it pleases you, Maman,’ he answered off-handedly, ‘I’ll play it your way, unless circumstances should change.’

  Marie’s hand fell. ‘My thanks, François, I knew you’d see reason.’

  Part Two

  Champions and Heroes

  O God, the sea is so wide and my boat so small:

  Be good to me.

  Prayer of a Breton fisherman.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kermaria, two years later. Spring 1185.

  Jean St Clair and his family gathered for supper in the hall, together with the men-at-arms, serving women and other members of the household. The whiff of mildew and decay had long been banished, and the scents of lavender and beeswax mingled in the air. The rushes were changed regularly; the whitewash was renewed annually. A large wall-hanging brightened the gloomy north wall. As last year’s harvest had been good, Jean had money in his coffers – terracotta tiles had been carted in from Vannes, and the hearth and fire-surround had been relaid in bold chevrons of terracotta and gold.

  ‘The duck smells good,’ Raymond said, hooking a stool from under the trestle with his boot. Raymond’s thick brown hair fell in tousled waves. He was unusually handsome, for not only had he inherited his mother’s fine emerald eyes, but he also had her beautiful bone structure. His muscles had filled out, and he had the ungovernable appetite of any active young man. Without waiting for his parents to choose their birds, Raymond took his knife from his belt, wiped it perfunctorily on his breeches, and speared himself a fowl. It thudded on his trencher, and an onion rolled across the table leaving a glistening trail like that of a snail.

  ‘Raymond, your manners!’ Yolande chastised him, smiling.

  Her son flashed her an incorrigible grin and flung himself on his stool. His charm he had from his father. ‘Apologies, Mama, but I’m famished! Where’s Gwenn?’ Gwenn was his dinner partner, and she was supposed to share the food on his trencher, after the fashion of nobles in larger households. Raymond never understood why they had to affect these ridiculous manners, but to save family argument he was prepared to pay lip-service to the odd caprice of his mother’s.

  ‘Here I am.’ At fifteen, Gwenn remained petite and darkly pretty.

  ‘Hurry up, sister. Or there’ll be none left.’

  There was plenty, but Gwenn took her place at her brother’s side while Raymond lunged at the sauce jug.

  ‘This bird suit you, Gwenn?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And wine sauce?’

  Already he was drowning the bird, and a dark pool of sauce seeped out under the edges of their trencher. ‘It would be too bad if it didn’t,’ Gwenn observed wryly.

  Raymond stared at the jug as though it were bewitched and had leapt into his hand on its own. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s alright. I like the sauce.’ Gwenn noticed that Ned Fletcher was watching her from the other trestle. Goaded by some inner demon, she lowered her head and peeped experimentally at him. Recently, she had discovered that Ned Fletcher went bright pink when she did that. A tide of crimson swept up the Englishman’s neck and surged into his cheeks, and he swiftly transferred his attention to a flagon of wine. Gwenn smiled.

  Yolande’s clear brow – she had marked this exchange – clouded.

  Everyone, with the exception of Raymond, who was already carving his bird, was looking to the master of the house for the signal to begin. The door opened, and Denis the Red, so called because of his fiery crest of hair, tramped in. One of Ned’s peers, Denis had been posted at the bridge on the avenue. A travel-stained stranger dogged his heels. Someone groaned. This would mean a delay in eating.

  ‘Aye? What is it, man?’ Jean asked irritably, for he was as eager for his meat as were the rest of them.

  The stranger, a courier, stepped forwards and proffered a scroll. ‘I’ve a despatch for you, sir.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s from your brother, Sir Waldin.’

  Jean raised startled brows. The St Clair brothers wrote only rarely to each other, and the last time Jean had heard from Waldin had been two years earlier, after Jean requested Waldin’s support. Waldin’s reply had been curt and to the point. Waldin had sent his regrets, but it was not quite convenient for him to comply with his brother’s wishes. Waldin had promised that he would join his brother later. Jean had not taken Waldin’s promise seriously.

  While his household waited, knives suspended over trenchers, the knight broke the seal on the parchment and ran his eyes slowly over the script. He was a novice where reading was concerned, but this hand was bold and clear, and easy on the eye. Waldin must have done well in the last tournament to be able to afford so neat a scribe. ‘Waldin is coming home,’ he announced with a smile. He turned to the messenger. �
�Is my brother in good health?’

  The man started. He had been staring at the heaped trenchers; he had not eaten in hours and the smell of braised fowl was making him giddy. ‘Aye, sir.’ Swallowing down a mouthful of saliva, he mustered a smile. ‘He’s been Champion of Champions this past two years.’

  ‘Has he, by God? So that’s why he wouldn’t come when I beckoned. I thought you were going to tell me he’d been injured, and was coming home to lick his wounds.’

  The rush-strewn floor was shifting under the courier’s feet. ‘No, sir. Sir Waldin is as sound of wind and limb as he has ever been.’

  ‘Thank the Lord.’ Jean grubbed in his pouch for a coin, and tossed it at the messenger. ‘Sit you down, man. On my soul, you look half famished. Eat,’ he said, addressing his household as well as the messenger.

  ‘My thanks, sir.’ The envoy stumbled to the soldiers’ board and fell upon the food.

  Denis the Red watched in envy. His stomach growled. Tonight, Denis would have to be content with cold fare by the bridge. He stumped sullenly for the door and wondered what they’d be getting tomorrow. He wouldn’t be on look-out at supper-time tomorrow.

  ‘So we’re to meet the great tourney champion at last,’ Raymond said.

  ‘Yes, if he doesn’t change his mind.’ Waldin was notoriously unreliable, and tourneys were his life.

  Gwenn saw that Ned Fletcher’s gaze was once more trained on the top table and she tried another smile. This one failed to bring the slightest flush the young trooper’s cheeks, and Gwenn thought she knew why. Ned knew all about Sir Waldin, and he had his ears stretched to catch every last word about the champion knight-at-arms. She herself had met her father’s younger brother when she was only seven, and she longed to see him again.

  Waldin St Clair was, in his way, a rebel. He had refused the expected career in the Church and had gone off to make his fortune at the tournaments. Gwenn’s memory of him personally was hazy. All she could remember was that he had appeared out of nowhere, but she had vivid recollections of the tournament that he had taken her to with Raymond on the outskirts of Vannes. Of course, Gwenn was older and wiser now, and she realised that, for Waldin, that small local tournament must have been an insignificant affair, but it had given her a taste of the excitement they offered. She had seen the silken pennons flying, and the gaily caparisoned horses. She had heard the thundering of great hoofs and the squealing of the horses. She had smelt the excitement.