The Stone Rose

by Carol Townend

  He had gone, and not a moment too soon. The solar door was giving way. In a trance, Johanna listened to the wood splintering apart and the rasping male voices which were getting louder. Her throat ached as though she’d been throttled. Sucking in a lungful of air, she became of something moving at the boundary of her vision.

  ‘Katarin!’ He had asked her to send the child down. The child, all eyes, made no answer. Wiping her sleeve across her eyes, Johanna held out her hand. ‘Come along, Katarin.’ The child was sucking her thumb so hard her cheeks were hollow. Johanna hoped she was not going to kick up a fuss. ‘Katarin, Mistress Gwenn’s waiting for you.’

  Meekly, the child stepped forward and offered Johanna the hand that was not in her mouth.

  ‘Good girl,’ Johanna said, much relieved. ‘I’ll have you with your sister in an instant.’ And securing the sheet Gwenn had tied round the child’s waist, Johanna guided her to the privy and eased her through the gap. She lowered her down. And during the whole procedure Katarin said not a single word, not even whimpering when the sheet was stretched to its full length and Johanna released it so Ned could catch her at the bottom.

  In the solar the air was heavy with sobbing and Holy Mary’s tireless chanting. Holy Mary was Johanna’s secret name for the serving woman. Mary knelt, dutiful to the last, with her head bowed before the vacant shelf where the statue of Our Lady had rested minutes earlier. The other women knelt in groups around her, clinging to each other as they wept.

  Behind the tapestry screening the privy, Johanna felt stifled. She was not afraid as the other women were for she had good reason to believe that she would not be harmed. She did not want to join the other women, but there was something she ought to do...

  Taking up the candle, Johanna kicked the other incriminating sheets out of sight down the shaft, and stepped confidently out. The hinges on the solar door would not withstand that relentless hammering many seconds longer. The gap between hinges and wall was widening, the door curving inwards.

  Swift as an arrow, Johanna sped for Philippe’s walnut cot. She stripped what was left of the bedding from it and stuffed the baby’s mattress under Gwenn’s bed. Collecting all the infant’s linen and blankets, she rolled them into a ball and ran to the hearth. Raking the ashes into life, she cast the ball of cloth onto the embers and poked it till a warm, golden glow was thrown over the room.

  When the glow fell on Holy Mary’s pallid face, the flow of petitions faltered. ‘What are you doing, Johanna?’ she asked in a strained voice. Mary had always struck Johanna as a jumpy, nervous woman. It was a wonder she wasn’t wailing with the other ninnies.

  ‘Covering up stray tracks,’ Johanna said. Someone had to be practical. She didn’t think praying would do much good. Satisfied that Philippe’s belongings would be burnt to nothing in a couple of heartbeats, Johanna scooped up a handful of ashes and ran back to the crib. Booting it into the darkest corner, she smeared its polished surface with the ashes, and stood back to admire her handiwork. She wiped her hands on her skirts and walked back into the solar.

  At that moment, the door hinges came out of the wall and the door crashed flat, raising a small cloud of dust. For a few seconds there was a grim silence. A nail rolled loudly across the wooden boards. A woman gasped, and muffled it. Klara gave a shaky wail. And a heartbeat later Otto Malait, puce in the face and eyes because his blood was up, bore down upon the kneeling women, brandishing a crimson-tipped axe. Bella screamed.

  Otto quartered the chamber for resistance; encountering none, he regretfully lowered his axe. Throwing a scornful glance at the quaking women, he strode past them, raised his frightful axe, and let it bite deep into the window shutters. ‘It’s black as pitch in here,’ he growled.

  Outside the despoiled manor, darkness was retreating; and as wooden splinters darted in all directions, the rising sun shot orange spears of light into the solar. More de Roncier mercenaries poured over the wreckage in the doorway. Nicholas Warr, archer, was among them, his face carrying the uneasy expression of a man wearing a tunic that did not quite fit. He was carrying a blooded shortsword instead of his bow.

  Mary saw him, and her jaw sagged. She drew a shaky cross on her breast. ‘Save us, Sweet Mother.’

  Johanna regarded Otto with dull eyes. This was the Count’s right-hand man. ‘Captain Malait, isn’t it?’

  He had gore in his beard. ‘Aye. And who might you be?’ He took off his helmet, but was no less terrible.

  ‘My name is Johanna.’

  Otto’s eyes narrowed. This was Conan’s spy of a sister. ‘I hardly recognise you, you’re gowned so grandly. Where’s the brat? And where did Fletcher fly to?’

  Johanna’s heart began beating with thick, slow, heavy strokes. She did not care a scrap about Gwenn Herevi, but this man must not reach Ned Fletcher, or her Philippe.

  ‘Spit it out, slut.’

  ‘You’re too late, Captain Malait.’

  ‘Too late? Where are they, girl?’

  ‘The babe caught a marsh fever,’ Johanna improvised. She knew a peasant’s baby had died a few days ago. ‘They buried him a week ago. Jean St Clair has no legitimate heir.’

  The Viking’s eyes bored into her. ‘You’re lying! You would have sent word. Why did you not send word?’

  It was a struggle to hold the pale, disbelieving gaze. ‘I would have, if Conan had come. Only my brother has not been here this past fortnight.’

  Otto came to stand in front of her, and Johanna felt as though he could see through her flesh to the marrow of her bones. ‘You’re lying,’ he repeated, lifting his grisly axe. ‘And I want the truth, my pretty.’

  Johanna discovered that she was prepared to die to protect Ned and the infant. She steeled herself not to cry out. She was dead anyway now he had gone.

  ‘She speaks truly!’ Mary burst out. Johanna watched, bemused, as Holy Mary surged up from the hearth, poker in hand, and corroborated her hastily spun web of lies. A flake of ash drifted from the tip of the poker. ‘Master Philippe died the Sabbath before last, and the little mite sleeps in the graveyard yonder.’ Using the poker, Mary pointed at the wall beyond which lay the hallowed ground of the graveyard.

  Not in a thousand years would Johanna have guessed that Holy Mary had it in her to lie so convincingly. Finding that she was glad to have kept all her limbs in one piece, Johanna fired a grateful look at her before squinting surreptitiously at the fire. Not a shred of the baby’s linen remained. Relief – which she never thought to feel again – flooded through her. Perhaps, with Mary’s assistance, she might secure Ned’s escape...

  ‘Look, Captain,’ Johanna said, ‘look at the cradle. You can see for yourself it’s not been used lately.’

  Stalking to the empty wooden crib, Malait peered in. ‘It’s soiled.’

  ‘Aye,’ brave, saintly Mary backed her up, ‘it’s not been used in over a week.’

  Otto drew off his gauntlets and ran a calloused finger the length of the crib. It came away coated in grime. He rubbed finger and thumb together and lifted them to his nose. He sniffed. ‘Too soiled, perhaps?’

  Johanna looked innocent.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘No,’ Johanna said, too shrilly. ‘No.’

  ‘Here, Warr,’ Otto addressed a man whom Johanna had not seen before. ‘Take this wench and get someone to disarm the one with the poker.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  Otto did a tour of the chamber. Johanna held her breath. When he reached the privy he ripped the screen aside. The curtain rings jingled and danced on their pole. Johanna saw a muscle clench in the furred, blood-spattered cheek, and closed her eyes. She wished she had more courage, not for herself, but so she could help Ned Fletcher. Mary’s lips were moving in silent prayer. Was it the praying that had imbued Mary with this startling new courage? Perhaps Johanna had misjudged the power of prayer. If it worked for Mary... For the first time in her life, she started to pray.

  ‘Keep these two in custody until I get back, Warr,’
Otto ordered tersely. ‘I don’t want them slinking into the shrubbery.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’ The man was bruising Johanna’s arm. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve a mind to play tag with the concubine’s daughter.’

  Johanna held the muscles of her face in as neutral a pose as she could. ‘The babe is dead,’ she said, in a voice as clear as a bell. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  The Norseman’s smile was repellent. ‘I’ll learn the truth of that when I catch them, won’t I? You can’t keep a baby stowed away for long – a live one, that is. And when I get back, you and I, my girl, will have a little chat. I shall look forward to it.’ Roughly he pinched Johanna’s chin and strode to the stairwell.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘What is it, Warr?’

  ‘What about the other women?’

  Otto hoisted heavy shoulders. ‘Let them go,’ he said. ‘Spineless jelly-fish, every one. They’re no use to us.’

  ‘They might know something.’

  In the thick beard, Otto’s lips curled. ‘If we set to work on that lot, we’d get nothing but screeches.’ Bella let out a howl. Otto raised an eloquent brow and exchanged looks with Warr. ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘The jelly-fish may go, but I want these ladies,’ Malait jabbed a thumb at Johanna and Mary, ‘kept safe for me. If you lose them, I’ll have your liver roasted for my dinner.’

  Warr gave a thin smile. ‘They’ll be safe, sir. There’s a vault under the hall. I’ll lock them in there.’

  ‘Judas!’ Mary screeched. And to her own surprise as much as Johanna’s, she spat in his face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Firebrand was full of the joys of spring and too many oats, Alan reflected, as he concentrated on keeping the courser on a short rein. They were passing the huddle of stalls and booths which had been set up by enterprising traders inside Vannes’ West Gate. Alan did not want the Duke’s highly strung horse to cause an accident. A proud, showy creature, Firebrand drew all eyes. Alan felt like a knight.

  A whore with lips painted red as ripe cherries gave him a hopeful look. She was up early. He returned the harlot’s smile, shook his head, and rode past her. Ribbons which matched the girl’s lips were threaded through a mass of curly dark hair. She was youthful and pretty, if one did not look too closely at her eyes – they were hard as flint.

  Firebrand resented the restraining hand on the reins and, sensing Alan was momentarily distracted, bucked experimentally. The whore hopped briskly out of the way. ‘Poxy knight!’ she shrieked, with the rancour of someone who saw a fat profit slipping through her fingers. Her breasts heaved. ‘Trampling over poor, simple folk.’

  ‘Easy, boy,’ Alan steadied Firebrand. If the whore had looked at Alan and not the courser, she would have seen that his spurs were plain steel, and not gilded like a knight’s.

  He was relieved to see the gate ahead of them, with La Rue Richmont running away from Vannes. He planned to conclude his business at Kermaria before going on to find his brother. Firebrand pranced under the teeth of the portcullis and no sooner had his hoofs hit the highway than he was fighting to be given his head. Alan kept the reins close to his chest until the road was clear. Then he slackened his grip, and with a whinny of delight Firebrand lengthened his stride.

  ***

  Taking a handful of men with him, Otto prowled round St Clair’s tower till he found the cesspits. One of them stank, and needed clearing. The other was empty.

  ‘This is the one, Captain,’ a mercenary said, holding up some muddied linen. A zealous lad, he had a cast in one eye, but his other was bright. ‘Those prints were made recently.’

  ‘I have two perfectly good eyes of my own,’ Otto murmured, cruelly, for he had a private and quite illogical aversion to physical deformities. His trooper’s sharp eye clouded.

  Two sets of footprints, clear as noonday, travelled in a straight line across the dew-drenched grass to a gate in the boundary wall. As Otto had anticipated, they were widely spaced, indicating that his quarry had been running. The gate led to the woods, and its lock had been smashed, either by the Count when breaking in, or by Fletcher when leaving.

  ‘Get horses,’ he demanded of another soldier.

  ‘Horses, sir? From where?’

  Their mounts had been tethered half a mile away, the better to approach St Clair’s guards unheard. ‘From St Clair’s stables, dolt, and move your legs.’

  The mercenary bit his lip. ‘One of St Clair’s grooms was sleeping in the stable, Captain. He loosed the horses before anyone marked his presence.’

  Behind the corn-coloured beard, the red blood surged. ‘By St Olaf–’

  ‘The groom’s been dealt with, Captain.’

  ‘Captain?’ The trooper with the cast in his eye edged forward.

  Otto drummed his fingers on the ivory haft of his axe. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It will be no bad thing to trail them on foot, sir.’

  ‘How do you work that one out?’

  ‘I know this forest, it’s pretty dense in places.’

  ‘Local man are you?’ Malait asked.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Odin be praised. You can be of use.’

  The mercenary’s eye picked up some of the brightness which it had lost earlier. ‘Aye, Captain. And I think I know where they might take refuge.’

  ‘Why are you standing about jawing, then? Lead on.’ Otto gave a brusque signal, and his troop moved towards the gate.

  In the forecourt of Kermaria manor, the dust was settling. And though it was broad day, a thick, midnight quiet had fallen over the tower. The cockerel, who had taken refuge on a cross-beam in the empty stable, flapped down from his perch, pecked indignantly at the body of a stableboy, and hopped into the courtyard. It was not the time for sleeping. The groom might have lost his senses, but the cockerel knew day from night. And to prove it, he lifted his head, and crowed as loudly as he ever had. The sound floated out over the tranquil marsh where the climbing sun was melting the frost from the reeds. Frogs croaked. Wildfowl padded placidly across lily pads.

  ***

  Brother Dominig was whistling happily as he made his way down the narrow boar-run in the Bois des Soupirs, the Forest of Sighs.

  As Brother Dominig was a novice and had yet to take his vows, the title Brother was an honorary one. The young man was confident that none of his brothers could hear him. It had been said to him on more than one occasion that a novice on the point of taking his vows should take life seriously, and although Brother Dominig did not disagree, at times he caught himself thinking that God might love some of his more serious-minded brethren a little more if they learned to laugh. He strode energetically to the river which ran past the edge of the monastery. A large shovel was slung over one shoulder, and a hazel basket swung from the other. Nearby a mule was braying.

  That morning, the novice’s rota had come full circle, and Brother Dominig had been given his favourite chore. Today he must empty the eel traps and clear the fishponds of weeds and silt. It was a chore which his superiors in their wisdom had decided required only one pair of hands, and as Brother Dominig loved the river and was of a solitary disposition, this was the job he looked forward to most. He enjoyed outdoor work, and was determined to make hay while the sun shone, for the prior had ordained that his profession, and that of his fellow novice, Marzin, was to be on the Feast of Pentecost tomorrow.

  The novice’s rota was a means whereby Brother Dominig’s superiors gauged where a new brother’s talents might lie. Once his vows had been taken, Bother Dominig would be allocated a permanent chore. He doubted that he would be given the privilege of maintaining the traps and fish tanks once he was professed; for while doing his stint in the kitchens, he had miscalculated...

  During the Prior’s last fish fast, Dominig had cooked a beaver’s tail for him – as beavers spent their lives in water and had hairless tails, their tails were counted by churchmen as fish. Prior Hubert had enjoyed
the dish, so much so that he had sent for Dominig to congratulate him on his cooking of it. Brother Dominig wished now that he had burnt that wretched beaver’s tail. His culinary success probably meant that he would be employed in the monastery kitchen rather than by the river.

  Feeling a pang of jealousy for his fellow novice, Marzin, Brother Dominig frowned. Marzin, who had been christened William but was adopting the name of that saintly protector of beggars at his profession, was a lucky man. Brother Marzin was an artist of no mean ability, sent to them from the main house of their order to finish a mural in the chapel. Marzin had brought with him a letter from the Abbot of St Gildas on the distant Rhuys peninsular, singing his praises. Prior Hubert had been cautious – Marzin was only a novice and there was a danger of his head being turned by too much praise. But when Prior Hubert had seen Marzin at work, he had changed his tune and had showered the novice with praise. Brother Marzin’s future doing what he loved was secure.

  Brother Dominig shook his muscled shoulders. He did not admire jealousy and was not about to sour today worrying about tomorrow. Sufficient unto the day, he told himself. He smiled. He could spend all of today by his beloved river. He felt nearer to God by the river, and loved it in all seasons. This May had brought with it a flurry of late rainstorms; the river was now so full its banks were brimming. The swollen waters swept past the fish tanks, a dark, gleaming rush of water heading inexorably for the marshes and finally for the Small Sea. The river was clouded with mud which it had snatched from somewhere deep in the Argoat. It looked as thick as Brother Peter’s best bone broth. Noah’s flood, Brother Dominig thought, must have started like this.