The Stone Rose

by Carol Townend

  Hobbling out of the path of a mailed knight atop a mountain of a horse, Conan sat down to chafe his aching feet and consider where he’d be most likely to find the chicken he intended plucking. He deemed it wisest to begin immediately, before hunger and thirst took their toll, and he headed straight for the area that had been cordoned off for the Bretons’ horses.

  The girl’s high-bred mare was easy to find. It was tethered not far from three young grooms with Brittany’s livery splashed across their broad breasts. The lads were seated in a circle on upturned leather buckets, dicing on the base of a fourth bucket. They were meant to be on guard. The tallest of them was chewing a piece of straw and he looked enquiringly at Conan, while one of his fellows rolled the dice.

  ‘Good day,’ Conan said, ensuring his damaged arm was tucked well out of sight.

  Lantern jaws masticating, the tall groom checked the fall of the dice and grimaced. ‘God rot you, Samson,’ he said, good-naturedly, ‘you’ve had the longest winning streak in history.’

  Samson smiled and threw again.

  ‘Pretty mare you have there,’ Conan said, regarding Samson and his lucky dice.

  The groom with the straw brought his overhanging brows down. ‘What’s that to you?’

  Conan glanced meaningfully at the dice-thrower whose head was bent low over the makeshift table. ‘If you’d permit a stranger to advise you?’

  The straw was removed. ‘Advise me?’

  Conan lowered his voice and jerked his head at Samson. ‘Aye. He bears watching, does that one.’

  The Duke of Brittany’s tall groom leaped the rope barrier and was at Conan’s side in an instant. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Try turning out his sleeves. I think you’ll discover the reason for his good fortune.’

  ‘Loaded dice?’

  Conan nodded, and heard the hiss of the groom’s indrawn breath.

  ‘Jesus God! If you’re right, that snake’s filched a fortune.’ He lifted his voice to a bellow. ‘Samson! Freeze, you worm!’

  ***

  ‘Le Bret,’ Duke Geoffrey handed Alan a parchment upon which he had scrawled a few lines, ‘see this reaches my lady wife, will you?’

  Alan bowed and thrust the Duke’s letter down the front of his tunic. ‘I’ll see to it myself, Your Grace.’

  Duchess Constance of Brittany’s white silk pavilion was pitched next to the Duke’s. Having delivered the note, Alan stood in the shade under the Duchess’s awning. He could see between the two rows of retainers’ shelters to his own tent halfway down the line. It was easy to pick out because of the two triangular patches that were visible from this side. A hooded man was walking past his tent at that very moment.

  With sudden insight, Alan stiffened, and turned all his attention on the cowled figure. A thick hood in August? The man was hiding his face. Would he do that if he were honest?

  The figure paused outside Alan’s tent and showed uncommon interest in the triangular patches in the canvas.

  Concluding that he had caught a sneak thief in the act of sizing up a likely place to rob, Alan started casually down the string of tents. Like most sensible people, Alan carried his valuables on his person. He hoped his cousin did the same. By the time he was two-thirds of the way down the line, the hooded figure had lifted the tent flap and ducked inside. Half expecting a shriek that would tell him that Gwenn was resting inside, Alan abandoned any pretence of indifference. He snatched out his dagger and charged through the opening.

  ‘Christ aid!’ the fellow squealed.

  Alan caught a glimpse of a taut, unshaven face and two terrified eyes, but the light was poor in his tent, and until he had the man outside...

  The thief had disembowelled one of the saddlebags and Gwenn’s spare bliaud was strewn over the groundsheet. Knife up, Alan lunged, delivering a cut to the thief’s calf. The wretch yelped. Another knife gleamed dully in the shadows. His opponent was breathing hard, and he retaliated. It was a wild, awkward blow and easily deflected. Nonetheless, Alan’s feet tangled in Gwenn’s gown. He kicked himself free. A dog barked, and a ball of grey fur hurtled through the tent flap. Yellow teeth sank into one of Alan’s boots. Alan couldn’t shake it off. Whilst he was distracted by the dog, the thief slid past him. His breath was foul.

  Alan dived, caught an arm and held on. The man whimpered as though he’d severed a tendon. Steel streaked silver past Alan’s eyes and Alan jerked back. The thief wriggled, kneed Alan in the groin, and fled. The mangy grey ball loosed hold of his boot and shot out of the tent.

  Doubled up in the entrance, gasping with pain, Alan watched them go. There was something odd about that man. He had no shoes, but that in itself was not significant. Alan sharpened his gaze. The man’s right hand was missing. So it was not the first time the knave had been a-thieving. His punishment had obviously failed to reform him. Alan pushed to his feet and dusted himself down. There was no need to chase him. Thieves were usually cowards. Having burnt his fingers here, he’d not be back. ‘Foiled you this time, my friend,’ Alan murmured. After stowing Gwenn’s belongings in her bag, he returned to the Duke.

  ***

  Alan didn’t mention the thief to Gwenn or Ned, but while he arranged for his cousin’s introduction to Duke Geoffrey, he advised Ned to stick near to the tent, saying that the summons to the Duke’s presence might arrive at any moment.

  While Gwenn sheltered from the afternoon sun in the relative cool of the tent, Ned had stationed himself outside, craning his neck to see past the other tents. His hungry blue eyes were trained on the distant lists, where a handful of knights were practising, ready for the tourney which was set to begin in two days’ time.

  Gwenn wiped her damp brow with the back of her hand and sank languidly onto her bedroll. She could hear the clashing of swords, and wondered at the men who could don full armour in August and fight, just for the glory of it. She was tired as well as hot.

  Alan’s tent was cramped, and she had not found it easy to sleep hemmed in on the one hand by her husband, and on the other by Alan. On the first night, she had been so worn out by travelling that she had dropped off almost at once, only to be shaken from her dreams minutes later by Ned. She had twisted round to peer at him. ‘Ned?’

  ‘If you want a cuddle,’ Ned’s voice was aggrieved, ‘I think you should stick to your husband.’

  With a rush of embarrassment, Gwenn realised it had been Alan’s side she had been burrowing into.

  ‘I...I’m sorry, Alan,’ she mumbled, overcome with confusion as Ned dragged her proprietorially into his arms. And that had been that. Except that it hadn’t been as simple at that, for afterwards she had felt afraid to close her eyes in case, in her sleep, she should roll over and find herself once more pressed against Alan’s tense, muscled body.

  Now it was day, and she could rest. ‘I think I’ll sleep,’ she said to Ned’s back outside the tent flap.

  He turned, honest Saxon features registering anxiety. ‘You’re not sick are you, Gwenn?’

  ‘I’m not sick. Just hot and a little weary. Why don’t you go and watch the knights?’ This was not the time to tell him he was to be a father, not when he was distracted by the excitement of the coming tournament and his hopes that the Duke would employ him.

  ‘Alan said to wait here. He might send for me.’

  ‘If he does, I’ll direct them to the field. Don’t worry, if the Duke summons you, we’ll find you.’

  Ned glanced longingly over his shoulder, divided between what he saw as his duty to Gwenn and his desire to watch the activity at the lists.

  ‘Go on, Ned. I’m poor company at the moment, and I just want to rest.’

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he promised. Before Gwenn blinked he had gone.

  ***

  Later that afternoon, the Duke’s messenger, a well-favoured young Breton with a bushy thatch of curly brown hair and brilliant brown eyes, swaggered up to the tent asking for Ned Fletcher. He was wearing an antique, battered gambeson which Gwenn assumed to h
ave been handed down to him from one of the Duke’s knights. His chausses were filthy, and a large rent flapped open at his thigh. He had a cut on his hand, and both his face and hair were slick with sweat. He looked as though he’d galloped all the way from Jerusalem, and Gwenn was taken aback that the Duke should permit such ill-kempt men to assist him. The messenger seemed careless of his appearance, and on sighting Gwenn in Captain Alan le Bret’s quarter’s, an interested light sparked in the deep brown eyes. He produced a practised smile.

  Gwenn ignored both the interested light and the too-charming smile, and waved in the direction of the lists. ‘My husband’s over there.’

  A lanky lad, the messenger was standing too close, as though he thought he could try to dominate her with his imposing inches. ‘You’re married to the man who was foolish enough to get his master killed?’

  Gwenn stiffened, discomposed for a moment as a spasm of pain ran through her. Ned’s former master and her father were one and the same, but the messenger was not to know that. She eyed him coolly. The Duke’s messenger was insolent, and he had not yet controlled that irritating leer. Then Gwenn realised the young man misconstrued her hesitation. His grin was actually broadening. Arrogant young pup. ‘Aye, I’m married,’ she said, icily.

  ‘Dommage,’ the young man murmured, ‘what a pity.’ Giving her a courtly bow, he took her hand, and before she realised what he was about, he lifted it to his lips and deposited a series of swift kisses on her knuckles. ‘However,’ he continued in a brighter tone, ‘if you are the wife of this Ned Fletcher, I see I shall have to take him on.’

  ‘Take him on? You?’ She reclaimed her hand. ‘What are you saying? It’s not up to you, surely?’

  The messenger bowed. His eyes were positively smouldering. ‘Oh, but it is. My squire is ailing, and,’ ruefully Gwenn’s courtier indicated his filthy, torn clothing, ‘as you see, I am in dire need of another.’

  ‘But....but....?’ Gwenn swallowed. She had been grossly mistaken as to this man’s identity, this was no lackey. ‘Wh....who are you?’

  ‘Raoul Martell, madame.’

  ‘You...you’re a knight?’

  Another bow. Another assured, infuriating grin. ‘Indeed, and at your service, madame.’

  ‘Ned’s used to a captain’s position,’ Gwenn blurted, and could have bitten her tongue out, for she did not want to stand in the way of Ned finding the work that he wanted.

  Sir Raoul raised a brow. He was one of those rare people whose eyes could dance while he frowned. ‘You think your husband unsuitable for me?’

  ‘Unsuitable? No, of course not. It...it isn’t that,’ Gwenn back-tracked hastily. This was Ned’s chance to set his foot on the noble, knightly ladder. ‘My husband’s a hard worker. I’m sure you would find him very suitable.’

  ‘You say he’s watching at the lists, Mistress Fletcher?’

  Raoul Martell pronounced her name as though he were caressing it, and his eyes were so dark they had no light in them at all. Gwenn shivered, and edged towards the tent flap. ‘Aye. You’ll find Ned at the lists.’

  ‘How will I know him?’

  ‘He’s taller than most, with thick flaxen hair.’ A reckless demon made her add, ‘He’s very handsome.’

  Undaunted, Sir Raoul gave her a bow worthy of the Duchess Constance herself, and went jauntily towards the lists.

  ***

  Though the post was temporary, Ned jumped at the chance Sir Raoul offered him. He was so keen to prove himself an able squire that he did not leave Sir Raoul’s side for the rest of that day. He carried the knight’s lances and saw to his horses – a wealthy man, Sir Raoul had more than one mount. Ned cleaned and sharpened his master’s sword, he had Sir Raoul’s second hauberk mended, and all the while he was hoping that his diligence would be rewarded by permission to assist the knight when it came to the grand tourney.

  Ned apologised for his neglect of her, but Gwenn hadn’t minded. She had been feeling queasy, and was only too glad to be left to her own devices. Besides, Alan seemed to have time on his hands, and he visited her more than once that afternoon. On the first occasion, he startled her by mentioning that he had informed the Duke of the injustice visited on her family by François de Roncier. The Duke had promised he would look into it. Dryly, Alan had added that large wheels turned slowly. Gwenn sensed that he was unhappy at his Duke’s lukewarm response. On his second visit – to fetch his spare dagger – he informed her that he planned taking a lengthy leave of absence from the Duke after the tourney, which strengthened her feeling that he was disillusioned with his carefree Duke. By the time Alan appeared for the third time, she was wondering if Ned had asked him to keep an eye on her. She did not wish to be an imposition.

  At dusk she lit their fire, and she and Alan sat before it, staring into the crackling flames, waiting for Ned. ‘There’s no need to keep coming back to the tent tomorrow, Alan,’ she said, hugging her knees. Like baleful yellow eyes, cooking fires and braziers were winking into life all about them. ‘It must be irritating for you, having to see to me,’ she pressed on, ‘but I feel safe. I’m only a bowshot from the lists, all I have to do is call out, and a dozen cavaliers would rush to help.’

  Alan’s head came up. He remembered the ragged thief he’d chased from the tent. It was more than likely the wretch had gone for good and would not harm a woman, but one never knew. Earlier, at the time of the evening Angelus, the heavy evening air had brought the echo of Paris’s distant cathedral bells into the tiltyard. While the bells were ringing, Alan had seen a cowled figure skulking behind the King’s cookhouse. It seemed unlikely that the thief would risk capture by being caught in the same place twice, but he had a powerful suspicion it was the same man. Alan had managed to get a glimpse of the fellow’s features the second time. It was Conan, the pedlar from Vannes. He was therefore not entirely sure that Gwenn was safe. If her husband could not be with her, then he must. But he did not want her alarmed.

  ‘It’s not an imposition,’ Alan said, sincerely. ‘My duties have been light of late, and I enjoy your company.’

  Conscious of a tug in the region of her heart, Gwenn looked away. ‘Why thank you, Alan,’ she said, voice husky. ‘I...I like your company also.’ A black brow twitched upwards, and she was moved to enlarge. ‘I never have to pretend with you. I can be myself. You make me feel at ease.’

  ‘At ease,’ Alan murmured softly.

  She had the obscure feeling that her remark had displeased him.

  ‘Like with Ned?’ Alan forced the question through his lips, not because he wanted to, but because he found he had to, though he knew he couldn’t expect an honest answer. To his astonishment, she tried to give him one.

  ‘N...no. Not at all like Ned. Ned’s predictable, while you’re...you’re not predictable at all.’

  He laughed. ‘And this unpredictability puts you at ease?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Some people can be predictable, but it’s not at all reassuring. You’re not inclined to judge, Alan, maybe it’s that. No. It’s not that. You’re cold–’

  ‘Cold?’ He shot her a hooded look. If only she knew. He did not feel at all cold towards her. Ned’s wife, he reminded himself. She is married to my cousin; she is my best friend’s wife.

  ‘Aye. You’re detached, but I like that. You’re careless of other people’s views.’

  ‘Careless?’

  ‘If their ideas don’t match yours, you don’t seek to convert them. You let them be. You wouldn’t impose your will on anyone.’

  Alan reached out, and though he knew he should not, he gently drew his fingers across the back of her hand. He felt absurdly like a poacher, and even more so when wine-dark colour ran into her cheeks. Gwenn bent her head over their water pot. Shamefully reassured, he said, ‘So that’s what you meant, my Blanche. For a moment there I was worried. I thought you were telling me you’d lost your liking for me.’

  Her head jerked up, her eyes flashed. ‘Liking for you? What are you talking about? I�
�m a married woman, Alan le Bret, and don’t you forget it!’

  The sinful mouth curved, transfixing her gaze. ‘I don’t forget it, not for one moment, I assure you, sweet Blanche. But sometimes, I wish you might.’

  Gwenn glared at him, her feeling of warmth and contentment had gone. ‘Oh, don’t you start, Alan,’ she said, wearily. ‘I’ve had my fill with Sir Raoul.’

  Instantly, Alan dropped his teasing mask. ‘Martell’s been pestering you?’

  ‘Like the plague. Sometimes I think that the only reason he agreed to take Ned on was because...’ She bit her lip, afraid her suspicions would come over as arrogance.

  ‘No need for false modesty,’ Alan said. ‘He’s one of the wolves I was telling you about.’

  ‘He’s a pain in the neck. He sends Ned off on a wild goose chase, and then comes here. I’ve made it plain I’m not interested.’

  ‘I’ll have words with him.’

  ‘Please don’t. I’ll deal with it myself. The grand tourney begins tomorrow, and Sir Raoul has promised that Ned will be his squire. I’ll...I’ll not hazard that for the sake of one day. If Sir Raoul is angered, he might change his mind.’

  Sober grey eyes captured hers. ‘You swear you’ll speak to me if he bullies you?’

  Gwenn nodded. She had not been able to mention this to Ned, but telling Alan had eased her mind. That was what she liked about Alan. He would flirt with her, but the moment he sensed she was uneasy, he would stop. Alan le Bret was sensitive. The discovery pleased her.

  ***

  Ned crept late to bed that night, and before he fell asleep he told Gwenn that he had prevailed upon Sir Raoul to reserve her a place on the Duchess of Brittany’s dais, near to her ladies-in-waiting. He seemed to regard this as something of a coup.

  Gwenn was not at all sure she wanted to watch the tournament. She put her disquiet down to the fact that she did not want to watch any sort of a fight, even a regulated one. She had seen all the fighting she ever wanted to see at Kermaria.

  ‘Ask for Lady Juliana,’ Ned said, ‘Sir Raoul’s fiancée.’