Ned was surprised and warmed by this admission, but knew better than to remark on it.
Alan continued, ‘I’ve been thinking that after the summer joust, I’ll take my leave of the Duke and go home. I should visit my stepfather.’
Ned looked keenly at his cousin. ‘That would be a good thing to do.’
‘When we left England, I felt betrayed. All those years he had pretended to be my father, when all the time he had no claim on me. I told him as much. I told him I’d never be his apprentice, never follow in his footsteps, and how dare he and Mother expect it. Christ, I was cruel. Ivon cared for me better than most fathers, taught me all he knew, but Ned, it hurt.’
‘Alan, you don’t have to explain to me.’
‘Be my confessor, Ned. God knows, I’m in need of one. The long and the short of it is, it’s been too long since I saw him, and I’d hate him to have grown old in my absence.’ Alan laughed, self-consciously. ‘Seeing William seems to have wrung some sort of conscience out of me.’
‘You always had a conscience, Alan, you don’t deceive me.’
Alan mouth curled into a rueful grin. ‘There was a time you thought otherwise, Ned, old friend. Do you remember the incident with the concubine’s daughter?’
‘Concubine’s daughter?’ Ned lowered his brows in a rare scowl. ‘Do you continue to think of her in those terms, Alan? I never thought of her as that.’
‘No, you fool, of course I don’t. But I remember you hating me for getting her out of harm’s way.’
Ned was as pink as the rocks. ‘I didn’t understand what you were trying to do. I should have trusted you.’
A lock of Alan’s hair lifted in the wind. He stretched, and checked the position of the sun. ‘Time I mounted up. I’ll grab a crust and go.’
‘God Speed, Alan. If you do return to England, perchance we could go together.’
The sombre features lightened. ‘England at harvest time,’ he murmured dreamily. ‘I should like that.’
‘Aye. Though I doubt if Gwenn would leave the children.’
Alan’s mouth edged up at one corner. ‘And you wouldn’t leave without her.’
‘No.’
‘You could, Ned. Come without her. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life tied to her side. Scores of far prettier women trail after the knights and squires at the tourneys – just think what you’re missing!’
‘Alan!’
Alan shook his head, and sighed. ‘I merely test your mettle, cousin. But there’s no hope for you, is there? You’re a lost cause.’
Ned’s lips curved. ‘Utterly. Ever since that first day.’
And all at once, Alan was overcome with a surge of painful emotion so similar to the pang of homesickness that he had just experienced that it could not possibly be jealousy. ‘I envy you your steadfast nature, Ned,’ he muttered. And then, because he could not stand the shining happiness in his cousin’s eyes a moment longer, he gave Ned a farewell wave and headed for the stables to find Duke Geoffrey’s courser.
***
Conan had left the cur tethered at the fisherman’s cot and was out in the open, crossing the beach, when he heard hoof beats. The drumming gave him ample warning of the rider leaving Sir Gregor’s manor, and he was able to dash for the nearest cover, which happened to be St Guirec’s shrine.
The wooden oratory was built below the high-water mark, and when the tide was in, as it was now, it lapped the rocky foundations. Conan had to wade thigh-high through shifting seawater and cling to the weathered eaves in order to keep himself from losing his footing. A seagull, put out at being dislodged from its watch on the roof of the shrine, spat a shriek of irritation at him and wheeled into the sky. A wave sprayed his mouth with brine. His mouth puckered and he grimaced. This would put a flux in his belly, if anything did. Conan hated water at the best of times and the swell held all of last night’s chill, and more besides. Silently he cursed the necessity for secrecy that had driven him into the water.
Last night he had seen who had ridden in with St Clair’s bastard. Until then he had thought it was going to be easy. As well as the children she had had two armed men with her. A stray thought surfaced, breaking the pedlar’s tenuous hold on his ruminations. His sister, Johanna, would be pleased to know that the brat had survived. Irritably, Conan applied his mind to the problem in hand. He had recognised the two soldiers escorting the girl, and sight of them had doubts growing like weeds in his brain. As the doubts flourished, so Conan’s confidence had withered.
The fair soldier, who had to be the Saxon that his soft-hearted sister was sweet on, would not pose a problem. The pedlar did not think that St Clair’s captain would recognise him. But when Conan had looked at the other soldier, his hopes had dwindled to nothing. Dark of face, and dour, he used to head one of de Roncier’s troops. He had been the one to shell out when Conan had first spied on St Clair’s house in Vannes. Conan had never dealt directly with the Saxon, but this other – he did not think that this other mercenary would have forgotten him. Instantly recognisable himself, his cold, grey eyes were as calculating as ever. What was he doing here? He had left de Roncier’s service with the Saxon, but he had not signed up with St Clair. Conan ransacked his mind for the man’s name, but he had no memory for names and it eluded him. He wondered if the dark one was aware of the Virgin’s secret. If he was after its treasure, Conan might as well abandon all hope.
After a restless night spent pondering the various courses open to him, Conan was on the point of cutting his losses and returning to de Roncier’s territory. He had the merchant’s purse, and if he set a good pace, the Count need never know he had been toying with desertion.
Clinging to the shrine, listening to the horse ride towards the beach over the regular swish of the waves, Conan made up his mind. He would return to Vannes. There was nothing for him here if that man was hanging around. The pedlar’s teeth began to chatter. He willed the rider to hurry; he wanted to get out of the sea and get himself dry, and could not in case it was him.
At last, the horse must have reached the sand at the end of the peninsular path, for the hoof beats changed, became muffled. And then there were more. Conan swore. Someone else was coming round the point. He’d be stuck in here for ever at this rate. Hearing a difference in the sound, his berry-brown face tipped to one side. The steps were lighter, this person wasn’t riding.
Cautiously he poked his head out. It was the concubine’s daughter herself, flying along the cliff path with her veil streaming out behind her like a swallow’s tail.
‘Alan, wait! Alan!’ she called.
‘Alan le Bret!’ Conan caught his breath as the full name came to him in a flash. ‘That’s it, Alan le Bret!’ And carefully, for he felt as though he were taking his life in his hands, he craned his neck to view the horseman. Sure enough, the rider was none other than the man whose presence in Ploumanach had robbed him of a night’s sleep.
Conan watched as he reined in his horse, a magnificent chestnut, level with the shrine. Hastily, Conan shrank behind St Guirec. If he positioned himself carefully, he could peer past the saint’s wooden feet and watch them safely.
‘Alan, wait!’ The girl caught hold of the animal’s bridle. She was breathless. ‘You weren’t going without saying farewell, were you?’
Conan’s ears sharpened. Alan le Bret was leaving, was he? Now there was stroke of good fortune.
The chestnut gelding sidled. ‘I told Ned to say goodbye to you on my behalf.’
‘I...I wanted...’
‘Aye?’
Le Bret’s tone was not encouraging, which confused Conan. Had he taken the gem already? And had the girl discovered its loss? She looked upset.
Conan’s instincts were blunted by years of hard living, and lack of exercise. He seldom employed them where other people were concerned. Count de Roncier had done his thinking for him, and his wits had dulled. But Conan’s instincts had not completely atrophied, and dimly he perceived that if he were to work success
fully on his own, he must allow for amendments to his plans. The chill was seeping through to his bones; but visions of a shining gemstone inspired him to set his discomfort aside and attempt to work out what the girl was thinking. It should be child’s play, her face was so open. The wench was upset, any fool could see that. Concluding her expression was more wounded than condemnatory, he reasoned that Alan le Bret had not taken her treasure. His spirits lifted.
‘I wanted to thank you for going out of your way for us, Alan,’ the concubine’s daughter said. ‘You have been a true friend.’
‘A friend,’ the mercenary murmured. His pewter-coloured eyes were as cold and aloof as they had been two years ago. No, that one would never change. The pedlar watched with interest the way the girl’s fingers were twisting the courser’s reins round and round her fingers, as though she did not want to release them. Alan le Bret must have seen it too, and apparently it vexed him, for he gave the reins a little shake and said in a dispassionate voice that lifted Conan back to Vannes, ‘You’ve thanked me, mistress, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’
St Clair’s bastard dropped the reins as though they were red-hot, and thrust unsteady hands behind her back. ‘Aye. I wish you well, Alan.’
He did not spur away immediately, though Conan’s newly resurrected instincts told him that he wanted to. He gazed down at the girl and observed with apparent irrelevance, ‘You came without your shoes.’
The girl looked away. ‘Oh, yes. I had to run to catch you up. I didn’t want you to go without me seeing...thanking you...’ Her voice died.
Alan le Bret continued to look down at the concubine’s daughter, while she looked up at him. Conan saw the man’s throat constrict, and noticed the sensuous lips were tightly compressed. With a sense of shock, he thought he understood. Could it be that he had misjudged this man? He had long thought that Alan le Bret was as cold a fish as one could hope to meet, but today, on this beach, Conan had an astonishing revelation. The coldness was a mask. The stillness which gripped the mercenary was not the stillness of a man who felt nothing, it was rather, the stillness of a man who felt too much. The icy sea was forgotten. This man could not be in love with St Clair’s bastard, surely? By her posture, the wench was not immune to him. So why was Alan le Bret leaving?
‘Farewell, my Blanche,’ the mercenary said softly, interrupting Conan’s interesting but profitless speculations. He reached out a hand as though he would touch her. Conan found himself holding his breath, but the horseman checked himself, and took up his reins. ‘Perhaps we will meet again, mistress, at the tournament?’
It had been a question, and the wench didn’t answer in words. As her head was turned, Conan could not see her face, but he could imagine those luminous brown eyes were speaking for her.
With sudden viciousness, Alan le Bret dug in his heels. Sand swirled and when it had settled, there was only the girl standing alone on the beach staring at the gorse bushes which marked the beginning of the Ploumanach road. The dust was slower to settle there, and the shrubs were moving in the draught made by a horse’s swift passage.
The girl’s head flopped forward, and for a long minute she stared at her toes which were lost in the rosy sand. Conan noticed the sea again, nipping relentlessly at his nerve endings. ‘Hurry up, I’m freezing to death,’ he muttered.
A silver tear-track trailed down the girl’s cheek. He saw her raise a hand and wipe her lashes. Her sigh mingled with the swishing of the sea. Her head came up, and great, mournful eyes toured the beach. She looked puzzled, like someone on uncharted terrain with no familiar landmarks to guide them. Finally, when Conan was afraid the girl had grown roots, she swung about and retraced her steps.
‘About time. Jesu, I’m numb right through,’ Conan mumbled sourly when she was safely out of sight. Staggering ashore, he looked askance at his dripping clothing. A stabbing pain shot through his stomach. ‘Christ aid.’ Then he grinned. Why was he worrying about clothes and a griping belly? With what he had coming, he could happily spend the money he’d stolen from the cloth merchant. Resolving to buy clothes fit for a king and the best food to settle his stomach, Conan moved haltingly towards the village. He was shivering, he was in pain, but he was happy.
First he would see where a tailor could be found, and then he would hatch a plan or two. There was no doubt about it, the concubine’s daughter yet guarded her gemstone, and but for the taking of it, it belonged to him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Three days later, Gwenn had recovered from the ordeal of her journey and had begun to chafe at the lack of exercise. Alis Wymark had a sweet but indolent nature, and it took much cajolery on Gwenn’s part before her aunt could be persuaded to accompany her and the children to one of the secluded coves which formed part of the peninsular. Apparently Alis was unused to putting a foot outside the manor proper without her tiring woman and at least one maidservant.
‘But, Aunt,’ Gwenn objected, laughing when she saw her aunt piling cushions and blankets into the arms of her longsuffering tiring woman. ‘There’s no need to make a pack horse of poor Marzina! We’re only going for a walk!’
‘I know, dear,’ Alis answered. ‘But I like to be prepared. We shall need something to sit on, and we might decide to make a day of it. I’ve sent Felicia to the kitchen for a basket of provisions. It will save having to send back for them if we need them.’
Gwenn noted the innocently uttered and very revealing phrase ‘send back for’. It would never occur to Alis to walk back herself for provisions if and when they were needed. As Sir Gregor’s wife she was used to being waited on hand and foot, and accepted it as her natural right that Marzina and Felicia should be dragged all the way to the beach with burdens which may or may not be used.
Alis finished stacking cushions on Marzina and heaved a sigh. She was out of condition, and sighed a lot. If she stopped asking others to do things for her and did them herself...
Smiling, Gwenn shook her head. Her aunt was loving and affectionate, and that was what mattered. Philippe had blossomed under the lavish care bestowed on him by Alis and her women. Katarin, however, remained silent. Gwenn hoped that a peaceful walk to the beach might encourage her sister to come out of herself. Peaceful? With Marzina, and Felicia, and Lord knows who else?
There was something more important which Gwenn wanted to discuss with her aunt, preferably out of earshot of the other women. She and Ned had not been allocated the quarters their married status merited, and while Gwenn was happy to be near the children, she had duties to Ned. She could see their separation was making him miserable.
On the beach, Marzina spread out the blankets, and Felicia set the basket to one side, next to a sea-smoothed boulder.
The wind whipped Gwenn’s veil round her face and, ignoring her aunt’s disapproving expression, she unpinned it and removed it. After a moment’s contemplation, she divested Philippe of his linen swaddling bands and tunic. Gurgling with pleasure, he began to crawl across the gently sloping sands.
‘Is it wise to remove all his clothes?’ Alis panted, sinking onto the blankets and cushions amid a froth of silken skirts. She waved at the maidservant. ‘Go after him, Felicia, there’s a dear, and see he comes to no harm.’
Felicia kicked off her leather shoes, hitched up her skirts, and smilingly obeyed. Felicia could do worse than be maidservant to her aunt, Gwenn realised. ‘It will do Philippe good to move about without restrictions,’ she said. ‘Besides, the air is warm.’
‘Won’t the sand scratch his delicate skin?’
Gwenn shook her head.
‘You are sure, Gwenn? You have more experience with babies than I do. I want to learn.’
‘They are very resilient, Aunt. Philippe is tougher than he looks.’
‘If you say so, dear.’ Alis heaved another sigh and dabbed her sweat-damp brow delicately with the edge of her veil. ‘It was further than I remembered from the manor.’
Gwenn hid a smile, for the walk had only been a short one. Kat
arin trotted up, mutely asking for help in removing her belt. She wanted to take her dress off to play in the sand with her brother and Felicia, and the belt buckle, a brass one which had been a gift from Alis, was too stiff for her growing fingers. Thinking to encourage her sister to use her tongue, Gwenn affected not to understand. Huge hazel eyes blinked, and the little girl nudged her on the shoulder, wrenching at the bright yellow buckle.
‘Why, Katarin!’ Gwenn feigned surprise. ‘Do you want something?’
Another tug on the belt. Another appealing look.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you,’ Gwenn said. ‘Do you want something?’
Her sister nodded vigorously.
‘Tell me, Katarin. Speak. What do you want me to do?’
Katarin pointed at her belt, caught Gwenn’s hand and guided it to her waist.
‘No. I won’t do it. Not till you speak. You must tell me, Katarin. Use your tongue, I know you can.’ Obdurately, Katarin shook her head. The child understood her, the shock of the killings at Kermaria had not damaged her sister’s intelligence, thank the Lord, only her will to communicate.
‘Try. Try, Katarin. Please, sweetheart.’
A sheen of tears coated the child’s hazel eyes, but her tongue did not loosen. Backing away from Gwenn, she gave Alis, reclining on her silken cushions, a hopeful glance.
Gwenn surrendered and took off her sister’s belt. When Katarin’s bliaud had been removed and she was clad only in her shift, the child gave Gwenn a shaky smile and scampered down the beach after her brother. Marzina, without being asked, followed Katarin.
Alis turned her soft blue eyes on Gwenn. ‘Don’t you think you make it worse when you try and force your sister to talk?’ she asked gently. ‘Perhaps you should let the sickness run its course?’
‘She should have recovered already. We’ve been here three days, and you’re kindness itself. She eats well, she sleeps well – she must know she is safe.’
‘Your sister needs time.’
‘Alan said that.’
The Stone Rose Page 44
