The Stone Rose (24 page)

‘Plenty of time for that,’ airily, Jean waved that worry aside. ‘Let’s see ourselves wed first.’

Yolande studied her lover, trying to assess whether she was pushing him too far. She didn’t want to lose what ground she had gained. It might be no bad thing to leave settling Gwenn’s affairs till after her own wedding. Her belated marriage might not confer legitimacy on Gwenn, but it would make her a more attractive proposition.

Yolande nestled against Jean’s side, resting her head on his shoulder while one hand pushed open the neck of his chainse and drew circles among the hairs on his chest. There was grey intermixed with the brown, they were neither of them growing any younger. ‘I pray you are right,’ she said softly, ‘but I’m not so sure that we do have plenty of time.’

‘God’s bones, of course there’s time. We’ve years of living left to do.’

Yolande spread her fingers on his chest. ‘I daresay I’m wrong, indeed I hope I am, but I have noticed that Gwenn seems to spend a large portion of her day with one of the men-at-arms. It would be dreadful, would it not, if she were to get herself,’ a deprecating smile touched the corners of her mouth, ‘into the same state that I find myself.’

Jean caught her hand and stilled the circling movements. ‘I’ve noticed nothing. You must be mistaken. None of them would presume...’ Jean watched Yolande arch an immaculate eyebrow. ‘Who is it?’

‘Ned Fletcher.’

‘Fletcher? I trust Fletcher. I let him take her riding.’

‘Exactly. Think of the opportunities that presents.’

‘Ned Fletcher?’ Jean drummed his fingers on the back of Yolande’s hand. ‘I own you’ve surprised me. I’d not have thought it of that lad. He’s one of my best – responsible and hard-working.’ Impatiently, he thrust back his hair. ‘Damn it all, Yolande, I
like
the boy. I’d hoped to make him sergeant.’

‘I like him too, Jean. But don’t you see, that makes him even more dangerous.’

‘You don’t think he’s had her already? No one will want her if she’s lost her virtue.’

‘No. I’m prepared to take my oath that they are both innocents. You should have seen the way he blushed when she fluttered her eyelashes at him this evening.’

‘The hussy. It would be damned inconvenient if she fancied herself in love with him. Does she?’

‘I think not. But you know what a baggage Gwenn can be. She has discovered the effect she has on the boy, and cannot help but try out her wiles on him. The result is that the poor lad is being teased mercilessly. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to be cruel, but you know Gwenn, she has to test everything to the limits.’

‘Something will have to be done, I agree. I’ll keep an eye on them. I won’t have my Gwenn wasting herself on some peasant boy who couldn’t keep her in clogs. I had it in mind for her to marry a wine merchant in Vannes, Dagobert by name.’

‘No, Jean. Not Vannes. Gwenn hates Vannes.’

Jean looked down his nose at her. ‘The whim of my daughter does not come into this.’

‘It’s more than any whim, Jean.’

Her objection went unheeded, and the sensuous mouth tightened. ‘Marriage is a matter of politics,’ Jean said, mouthing the beliefs of his class. ‘Daughters marry to suit their parents, and if it suits me to make an alliance with one of the richest men in Vannes, she’ll obey me. However,’ the muscles round his mouth relaxed, ‘as
we
are to be married soon, I think I’ll commence negotiations in another quarter. Since our household is to turn respectable, and Gwenn’s brother,’ he placed tender fingers on Yolande’s belly, ‘will claim your mother’s lands, we’ll want more than a vintner for our eldest daughter.’ He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘By St Patern, I’m worn out. If I promise to look into this, will you let me get some sleep?’

Yolande smiled. ‘I will. Good night, Jean.’

He reached for the lantern, and snuffed out the flame. ‘Good night, my love.’

A
t dawn two days later, Gwenn went to the stables to meet Ned for their early morning ride as had become their custom. The day was bright and clear, so clear it seemed to shine.

When Gwenn entered, Ned was securing the girth on Yolande’s brown mare. He greeted her with a warm smile, and hoped he was managing to conceal the effect she always had on his heartbeat. ‘Good morning, mistress. Here is Dancer all saddled up.’ Yolande had asked Gwenn to exercise Dancer while she was carrying.

‘My thanks, Ned. Where are we going today?’

‘I thought we could aim for Locmariaquer.’

‘Locmariaquer? But won’t that take too long? Can you spare me so much time?’

Ned grinned, and answered as lightly as he could. ‘I’d give you all the time in the world, mistress, if it was mine to give.’ He led Dancer and the grey gelding that he was to ride out into the yard.

‘But your duties?’

‘I don’t have to report for duty till this afternoon.’

‘So we have the whole morning?’

‘We have the whole morning.’ Ned linked his hands and squired Gwenn onto Dancer. ‘But don’t tell me you’ve been to Locamariaquer already? I wanted to show the old earthworks to you. There’s a curious temple that some say was used for human sacrifice by monsters from the past.’ He contorted his face into a hideous grimace and brought it as near to hers as he dared.

Smiling, Gwenn pushed him away. ‘Why is it that you’re always trying to scare me out of my wits, Ned?’

‘I don’t know. I must like it when you scream.’ Ned turned away. ‘But if you’ve seen them before...’

‘You can still show them to me. I’ve not been there since your cousin left, and when I saw them I was...somewhat distracted. I’d love to see them with you.’

‘Good. And on the way you can tell me all about your Uncle Waldin. And tournaments, and jousting, and–’

‘I don’t know much!’

‘Tell me what you do know.’

They were all but out of the yard when Raymond hailed them from the top of the manor steps.

‘Hold on you two! I’m to come with you.’ Rubbing bleary eyes, Raymond stumbled into the stables, and thereafter a series of bumps and scuffles and muted swearing drifted out on the dawn breeze.

Gwenn groaned. ‘I was afraid of this.’

‘Mistress?’

‘It’s nothing, Ned. Just some stupid idea that has lodged in Mama’s head. Raymond’s been sent to keep an eye on us.’

Ned looked sharply at Gwenn and felt his colour rise. ‘You mean...b...but Mistress Gwenn, I’d never...’

‘I know, Ned.’ Gwenn sighed. ‘We’re
friends
. But others, apparently, have other ideas.’

***

That afternoon, Ned took his turn on guard at the top of the tower. Cooing white doves roosted in nesting boxes all round the rooftop. Ned was bored. His scalp itched. Removing his helmet, he ran a hand through his fair thatch of hair, which he wore shorter these days, like a veteran. Since Alan had gone his own way, Ned had discovered within himself an untapped well of personal ambition. He wanted to succeed here. He wanted to win promotion. He crammed his helmet back on and diligently scanned the well-ordered village laid out below.

The road to St Clair’s holding was empty, with not even a drover in sight. The weather was warm for April, and the air still. From the village, Ned could hear the clanging of the blacksmith at his forge. Geese honked on the marsh. Mechanically, Ned ran his eyes over Kermaria’s defences. The manor had been transformed in the two years since he had ridden in with his cousin on that litter. Kermaria’s ditch was free of lilies and weeds. The well-shaft had been cleared and repaired, and a trough stood hard by. The cookhouse had been reroofed. The road had been widened. The perimeter wall had been strengthened, but the houses which clung like barnacles to the wall had remained, on condition that they were buttressed. The cottage roofs had been reinforced and doubled as a walkway for St Clair’s sentries.

Most notable of all were the alterations to the manor itself. Mortar been reapplied to the crumbling stonework. The entrance steps had been reconstructed. The village carpenter, Jafrez, had made stout new doors for every archway in the building, even fixing them at the top and bottom of the spiral stairs leading from the common hall to the more private family solar on the first floor. Many had muttered at the rank waste, but Ned looked at the solid iron-studded doors with a soldier’s eye, and he could see that if ever Kermaria were attacked, behind those doors would be a final refuge, a place from which one could make a last, desperate stand.

St Clair’s crowning achievement had been to slap an entire floor on top of the solar, transforming his squat, vulnerable manor into a properly defended tower. This upper floor had a shelter for the guards; and, absurdly, Mistress Yolande had been permitted to turf the old grey pigeons off the raised roofline and replace them with snowy doves. They nestled happily in roosts set in the stonework.

Jean St Clair took his responsibilities seriously. The man might be a knight with people to protect, but what lord in his right mind would lay siege to this place? St Clair’s domain, though improved, remained little more than marshland and mud. What could anyone want with that?

Ned sighed. Nothing ever happened here. Thankfully, it appeared de Roncier had forgotten St Clair existed. The last Ned had heard of his former lord was rumour of him betrothing his daughter to some doddering lord in the Aquitaine. Thank God that Waldin St Clair was due to arrive soon. That should prove interesting. Perhaps, if Ned could prove his worth, the champion might give him the odd piece of advice.

A door slammed, someone was leaving the tower. Ned craned his head to see through the machicolations, and a girl walked into his line of vision. His gaze sharpened. ‘Gwenn,’ he murmured to himself, savouring the sound of her name on his lips. ‘Gwenn.’ Knowing himself unobserved, save for the cooing white doves, he blew her a furtive kiss.

Ned was hopelessly in love. But his love was a sad and secret thing, never to be brought out in the open. He had hidden it from Gwenn; and till today he had hoped he had hidden it from everyone. Love tied him to Kermaria when otherwise boredom would have driven him to follow his cousin. Ned knew his love was doomed. Mistress Gwenn might only be the natural daughter of a knight, but she was as far out of his reach as the moon. She might as well be the daughter of an earl. A lad from peasant stock must keep his eyes from straying to a knight’s daughter.

Normally, Ned denied himself the pleasure of watching her. He did not want to shame her with his love, he did not want her disparaged by it. But now, alone on guard duty at the top of the tower, he could indulge himself. He knew Gwenn liked him. But that, if anything, made his situation more impossible. Ever since she’d set her heart on improving her riding, St Clair had permitted her to ask for him. And until today they had invariably ridden out alone.

Ned had to admit that teaching Gwenn had been as much a torture as it had been a pleasure. He lived for their rides, yet when he was alone with her, things were worse. His fair skin flushed easily, and whenever she was near, his face burned. He was painfully, agonisingly, conscious of her every move. And all the time he must strive to appear unaffected. He had considered leaving, for there were times when the touch of her hand on his as he helped her to her horse was almost more than he could bear. Even when he was not looking at her he could see her bright, teasing eyes; her shining fall of hair; her slender hands on the reins.

When they were alone, Gwenn was never the aloof daughter of the master of the house. She was warm and friendly. And to compound matters, she would tease him. ‘What are you thinking about, Ned Fletcher?’ she would ask, laughing. In vain he would strive to keep the hot blood from rushing to his cheeks. Had she divined that he loved her? She may like him, but what did that signify? Mistress Gwenn had been blessed with an open, friendly nature. She liked everyone. Ned knew he should leave, nay,
must
leave. This half-life he lived was a barren, futile one. But now Waldin St Clair was arriving, and he had another reason to stay. If he could persuade the champion to teach him swordsmanship, if he could really master that skill, he would be able to find a place for himself anywhere he chose.

Gwenn disappeared round a corner and Ned stepped back from the crenellations onto the parapet walkway. Conscientiously, he reminded himself of his duty. Perhaps another turn about the watchtower would serve to push her to the back of his mind. He had inspected the masonry on the roof last week, but he could do it again. Like that of the lower walls, the pointing was in good repair. Moss and leaves were regularly cleared from the gullies on the ramparts; nests were ruthlessly expelled from the guttering. The only birds permitted on the tower were Yolande’s fluttering doves, which she insisted would make a welcome addition to the household’s diet, though Ned could not recall dove ever being served.

The door of the guardhouse creaked open, and Denis the Red stuck his fiery head out. ‘St Clair wants a word with you.’ Denis jerked his thumb at the stairs. ‘Down in the hall.’

‘Oh? Any idea what it’s about?’

Denis’s freckled face did not show much interest. He hitched up the belt girdling his protruding belly and scrubbed his red crest of hair. ‘Beats me. Joel said St Clair told Captain Warr to pull himself together.’

‘Warr can be sloppy,’ Ned said. ‘He left the targets out last week, and they got rained on.’

‘Aye. Well, you know how the man can’t stomach the slightest criticism. He and St Clair exchanged pointed words, and the upshot is he’s leaving. Says he’s got a woman waiting for him in Vannes, but no one believes that one. I don’t think St Clair thinks much of him for leaving at such short notice. Perhaps he heard you mumbling about going and all. You did mention it at table last week.’

An image of Gwenn, laughing, filled Ned’s consciousness. ‘Aye,’ he said, rather quietly. ‘I remember.’

‘Best go and tell him.’

‘You’re to take my place on guard?’

‘Aye, worst luck.’

‘Don’t forget your helm,’ Ned reminded him. St Clair was a stickler for that.

‘I won’t.’ Denis shook his head grumpily. ‘It’s in the guard-house. I thought I’d escape sentry duty today, having done my stint yesterday, but I happened to be in the hall at the wrong time.’