The Stone Rose (22 page)

‘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.’

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

Be good to me.

Prayer of a Breton fisherman.

Kermaria, two years later. Spring 1185
.

J
ean 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.

Waldin had not taken part that day; instead he had devoted himself to answering Raymond’s questions and plying Gwenn with scoopful after scoopful of honeyed almonds and raisins. For months afterwards Gwenn had relished their sweetness and had carried in her mind the brightness and colour of the tourney. After the tournament, Waldin had vanished out of her life as inexplicably as he had appeared, but that day with her uncle had stood out among other, duller days as one filled with magic and wonder.

It was strange how she could not call Waldin’s face to mind, but she was sure she knew what he would look like. He would be tall and strong and brave. He would ride a white charger like the hero of a troubadour’s song. She conjured up an image of him, and it was clear as day.

‘Why should Sir Waldin change his mind, Papa?’ she asked. Since bringing his family to Kermaria, Sir Jean had given his children permission to name him ‘father’, explicitly acknowledging them as his. He had not, however, kept his promise to marry his mistress.

Jean smiled. ‘The reasons why Waldin could be delayed are legion.’

‘From what I’ve learned of life on the tourney circuit, I should think they’re most likely female,’ Raymond cut in with a man-of-the-world snigger. He looked more than happy to expand on this theme, but Jean silenced him with a look.

‘My brother’s a law unto himself, and always has been,’ Jean said. ‘But judging from his missive, it would seem he’s retiring from the lists.’

‘Thank God for that mercy,’ Yolande said softly.

Gwenn clapped her hands. ‘I can’t wait to see him! Think of it, Raymond. The tales he must have to tell. Why, he will have met the King.’

‘Which King are you talking about?’ Raymond asked dampeningly. ‘France or England?’ He seized a decanter of wine and upended it into his cup.

‘Does it matter? To have met a king,
any
king! Oh, Raymond, aren’t you excited?’

He was, but at seventeen Raymond felt conscious that he was a man full grown, and he’d die rather than admit it. ‘I should think Waldin will have better things to do than gossip with maids,’ he said.

Yolande intervened. ‘It will be lovely to see your brother again,’ she declared. ‘I’m glad he’s retiring from the circuit. Perhaps we might persuade him to stay.’

‘I pray so. I could always use a good man.’

‘Why is Waldin retiring, Papa?’ Raymond asked. ‘I thought tourney champions made sackfuls of money.’

‘They do. When they win. As you know, they take all the loser’s accoutrements – his horse, his arms, everything. But each time they fight they risk their lives and their goods. And they cannot always win. The life of a champion often ends in penury, if it is not cut short. Waldin’s had a good, long run. Only God is infallible, and Waldin knows his time as a champion is limited.’

Raymond toyed with a piece of meat he had impaled on the point of his dagger. ‘He’s running away.’

‘He’s using his brain.’ Jean set his stoneware cup down smartly. ‘But don’t ask me. You can ask the champion himself in a couple of weeks. He plans to be here around Ascensiontide.’

‘So soon?’ Yolande murmured, under her breath. Her hands were at her girdle, tightening it, and her eyes were turned down to their trencher. ‘That’s not long at all. I’ll have to have done it by then.’

‘What are you muttering about?’ Jean demanded, noticing for the first time that Yolande had lost her sparkle. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

But she declined to meet his gaze. Instead her eyes wandered to the fire flaming in the newly-tiled hearth. She sat straight as a nun, and folded her hands neatly over her stomach. ‘We’ll be needing new linen sheets if Waldin is to come. The spare ones are fit for nothing but dish clouts.’ Then she turned her head and met her lover’s eyes straight on. Her gaze was remote, her face was set like rock, and her wide forehead was furrowed. Jean’s heart lurched. That look – it was as though she did not like him, had never liked him, and was sure she never would like him. Bemused, he ran his hand over his moustache, and then Yolande was smiling warmly at him, and her hand had come to cover his.

***

Having picked at her evening meal, Yolande retired early to the solar, taking a rush-light with her. At Kermaria, peace was almost as rare a commodity as privacy, and Yolande needed peace desperately tonight. She had some thinking to do. Pressing her hand to her belly, she paced the boards. A tiny fluttering made itself felt, as though there were a butterfly inside her. But it was no butterfly. Yolande had known that fluttering sensation before, and knew what it meant. Each time she had noticed it, a babe had followed some months later.

She was pregnant. Yolande had misgivings about this baby. She did not want another child. More precisely, she did not want another bastard.

The Stone Rose stared proudly down from a new walnut plinth on a shelf Jafrez the carpenter had fixed to the east wall. Kneeling before it, Yolande offered an Ave Maria before murmuring a more personal prayer. The Virgin watched with cold, granite eyes. ‘Holy Mother, help me. Advise me. I had thought the time had past that I could bear a child. Why else should my courses have stopped when Katarin was three? What purpose do you have in giving me another child? I count it no blessing. Why?’