The Stone Rose (17 page)

‘You were very brave,’ the girl said, conversationally. ‘I should have screamed.’

Talking was the last thing Alan wanted to do, but he reminded himself that it might be useful to win the girl’s friendship. At Huelgastel, Alan had overheard de Roncier and the Dowager Countess discussing a statue and a gemstone; and in the fire, Izabel Herevi had babbled about Our Lady. She had said that she had given it to Gwenn. Was it the same statue? And what about the gem? Alan forced his bitten lips to smile. ‘I’m a soldier, I’m meant to be brave.’

The cloth was withdrawn. The large, brown eyes were thoughtful. ‘You’re a mercenary. I’ve never talked to a mercenary before.’

Alan sighed.

She stared at his purse which he had restrung about his neck. ‘And you make your daily bread by killing people.’

Alan fastened the neck of his tunic and watched her tip back on her heels. With a faint feeling of alarm he recognised the light dawning in her eyes as a missionary one. Useful though her friendship might be, he’d not stand for that.

‘How many people would you say you have killed?’

Transferring his gaze to the fire, Alan refused to answer, hoping she’d change her tactics, or grow bored as children do. She was very young.

‘How many people have you killed?’ She rinsed out the cloth, and started on his face again.

Alan smothered an oath. Gwenn Herevi was persistent in more ways than one. ‘I provide a service, little Blanche,’ he said, and having disconcerted her with the French version of her name, he succeeded in pushing her hand away. ‘I help people fight their battles.’

‘Blanche?’ she wrinkled her nose.

‘Your name.’ Pain made his response more curt than he had intended. ‘Gwenn is Breton for Blanche, is it not?’

‘Aye, only no one ever calls me by the French version.’

He shrugged.

‘The Church condemns mercenaries,’ St Clair’s daughter went on without rancour.

‘Do you condemn me as a murderer?’ he asked softly.

‘You...you make your money by killing people, don’t you?’

He flung back his head and gave a creditable laugh. ‘Pot calling the kettle black, is it?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Lunging for a slender wrist, Alan pulled Gwenn Herevi so close that her face all but touched his. Beneath the grime from the fire, her skin was smooth as marble. Her breath was sweet and stirred his hair. ‘Who are you,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘to call me a murderer? You’ve been brought up on the proceeds of whoredom, when all’s said and done.’

The girl gave an inarticulate cry and wrenched herself free. ‘You...You...’ Poppy-red, she stammered to a halt.

‘Bastard?’ Alan only mouthed the word, but he could see from the way her face grew pinched that she understood him at once. To be quite certain, he rammed his message home with a callous smile, murmuring, ‘That name belongs to you also, sweet Blanche.’

The girl leapt to her feet and flung the cloths and bandages into her basket. Her mouth was set and her hands were trembling. She was speechless with hurt, and fury, and wounded pride. Alan’s conscience stabbed him, and he found himself wondering how low it was possible for a man to sink. He felt no triumph. It was as though he had kicked a puppy who had come running up tail a-wag, not a pleasant feeling. It was disturbing too, to find he was not yet able to put guilt behind him.

She snatched up her basket and twisted away, taking a second to dart a malevolent look at his broken limb. ‘I could kick it,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.

Alan looked straight at her. ‘Inadvisable,’ he said, smooth as silk. ‘It would undo all your good work.’ It was only after she had stormed up the stairs that it occurred to him that in wanting to kick his leg, she had mirrored his own guilty thoughts with peculiar accuracy.

***

In answer to her mother’s summons, Gwenn pushed past the faded, rotting rag that a generation ago might have been a creditable door-hanging, and entered the sleeping-alcove that Yolande was to share with her father. Her grandmother’s bier had been placed in the chapel, and Jean was organising a vigil for her. Gwenn would attend the vigil, as would her mother; none of them would rest that night. ‘Mama?’ Her mother was reclining on a moth-eaten mattress, a hand shielding her face.

The hand was removed and red-circled eyes met hers. ‘Come in, Gwenn.’

Gwenn sat down by her mother. A musty odour filled the small chamber, and by it Gwenn knew that the mattress was filled with chopped straw and that it was damp. ‘I wouldn’t lie on that, Mama. It will make your joints creak.’ She reached for her mother’s hand, which gripped hers hard.

‘It’s only for a moment,’ Yolande answered distantly. ‘Tomorrow, you can help me organise new ones for us all.’ She hesitated. ‘Gwenn, I...I’m sorry to have to ask you this, I’ve asked Raymond, but as he wasn’t there at the time, he couldn’t tell me.’

‘Tell you what, Mama?’

Her mother’s breast heaved. ‘Was...was it a swift end for her, do you think? I...I cannot bear to think of her suffering.’

Gwenn’s throat closed up. ‘Oh, Mama. It...it was the smoke. I was with her at the end. She charged me with asking for your forgiveness.’

A sob. ‘She wanted
my
forgiveness?’

‘She loved you, Mama.’

This was not the moment to inform her mother that the Norseman had set the fire. Had he escaped? Was he in de Roncier’s pay? It seemed likely. And what had he wanted from her grandmother?

‘Grandmama did not suffer long.’

Yolande closed her eyes and turned her head away. After a few moments’ silence, she lifted swollen eyelids. ‘Raymond told me that you’ve seen Alan le Bret before?’

‘Aye. He was by the cathedral when the Black Monk–’

‘He could be a de Roncier man. I won’t have him lodged here.’

Gwenn remembered how Ned Fletcher had tried to warn her by waving her away from the cathedral. While she was not certain of Alan le Bret, she would trust Ned Fletcher with her life. And if Ned Fletcher was Alan le Bret’s friend, le Bret could not be all bad...

Aloud she said, ‘But he saved me, Mama. He broke his leg saving me.’

‘He’s got to go.’

‘Let him stay till his leg is healed, Mama. We owe him that.’

Yolande sighed wearily. ‘I don’t trust him.’

‘Please, Mama.’

‘I shall consider it. Now, will you lend me your arm as far as the chapel? I...I feel a little shaky.’

L
ater that evening, with his belly filled, Alan took stock of his surroundings. As halls went, this one was small. Damp torches smoked in cobwebby wall sconces. The trestle tables – so recently scrubbed they had eaten from them before the water had dried – had been cleared and pushed to the walls. The wine had been stowed under lock and key in vaults below. He smothered a sneer. The St Clair family had fled to this rundown, pigsty of a manor, and despite the tragedy that had struck them, they were already managing to run it as though it were a full-sized castle. De Roncier was obviously no fool to fear St Clair’s ambitions, for the man had pretensions that soared way above the station of a lowly knight. The St Clair family themselves had not eaten a morsel, spending most of the time in the chapel, watching over the body of the concubine’s mother.

Not surprisingly, Alan’s leg was aching. Wearily, he sank back into his pillow and chastised himself for antagonising the Herevi girl. He hoped he hadn’t ruined his chances. If what he had overheard Marie de Roncier say about the statue was correct and it did indeed contain a jewel, Alan intended to have it.

His cousin entered the hall via the solar stairway. Dragging a stool to Alan’s pallet, he sat down beside him. ‘Feeling better, Captain?’ he asked, in English.

Alan glanced around the hall, but no one was paying them any attention. ‘Don’t call me Captain, Ned. Alan will do. Although it’s unlikely that anyone can understand us, I for one don’t wish to cry it about that we were signed with de Roncier. And I’m no longer your captain.’

‘Aye. I’m sorry. It’s become a habit, Alan.’

A companionable silence fell over the two men. The combination of too much wine and the warmth of the fire made Alan sleepy. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift.

Ned dragged him back to reality. ‘Cousin?’

‘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.