The Stone Rose (27 page)

Alan folded his lips together and glanced briefly at the royal tent.

‘It couldn’t be,’ amusement lifted the Duke’s lips, ‘that you were visiting the daughter of King Philip’s cook?’

‘Your Grace?’ Keeping his face as blank as a stone slate, Alan stared past his liege lord at a silver fleur-de-lys, flying high on a standard on the top of the French King’s pavilion.

‘You don’t answer, le Bret.’ Duke Geoffrey’s voice took on a warning note, but his eyes were smiling. ‘I think you tell but half your tale. While we wait I’d have you entertain me with the whole, if you please.’

Alan raised grey eyes to his noble lord’s. ‘Your Grace, you may have bought the strength of my arms, but I can’t think you own all of me.’

‘I always knew you were half-hearted in your loyalties.’

‘My liege?’

‘You’re holding out on me. You reserve your strongest member for your private use.’

‘I did but go for a walk and happened to pass this way.’

‘Walk!’ The Duke hooted. ‘I’ve heard it called many things, but walking’s not one of them.’

There was a stir in the royal tent, the flap opened, and a girl emerged. She ran off giggling. Her features were shrouded in her veil, but the men outside the tent got a clear sight of a blushing, boyish face and laughing eyes.

‘So help me, Church and Mass, that was the cook’s daughter, was it not?’ The Duke eyed his captain with malicious delight.

Alan shrugged. ‘I believe the wench is daughter to King Philip’s cook, aye.’

Geoffrey of Brittany gave a bellow of delighted laughter. ‘Snatched from under your nose by no less than a king, eh, le Bret?’

‘Kings can pay more than captains.’

‘So she’s a whore?’

‘Aren’t they all?’

Duke Geoffrey’s face grew sombre, while he thought of his neglected wife, the Duchess Constance. ‘I wouldn’t know, le Bret. It always seems to be too much trouble to find that out.’

Alan le Bret smiled. ‘Just so, my liege.’

The tent flap yawned and Philip of France’s dark, tousled head emerged. The King rubbed his eyes. ‘Good morrow, Brittany. You’re up with the larks.’

The Duke bowed. ‘My apologies, sire. But I’m leaving for Brittany–’

‘Short of funds again?’ the King probed. He was always probing, always trying to stir up conflict between his friend the Duke of Brittany and the Duke’s father, Henry of England, in the firm belief that it might give him the advantage in the ceaseless jostling for power that went on in Henry’s continental dominions.

‘Funds? No, sire. I thought I would pay my respects at my brother’s tomb in Rouen, and continue on into Brittany.’

The Young King Henry of England, Duke Geoffrey’s older brother, had died of dysentery in 1183, a few months after Alan had sighted him at Locmariaquer. Although the Young King had been crowned in his father’s lifetime, he had predeceased his father and never come into his inheritance. The Young King had been a king without a kingdom, and Alan was coming to see that wealth was relative. The Young King’s need for money had been a key factor in the rebellions he had mounted against his father.

Duke Geoffrey, Alan’s liege lord, was Henry Plantaganet’s third son, and never likely to wear the crown. His father favoured the youngest of his four sons, John, while his mother Eleanor favoured Richard. Alan had chosen the Duke of Brittany for his master over Henry for purely sentimental reasons; the Duke’s Duchess, Constance, had family connections in Richmond, Alan’s home in England.

The Duke continued, ‘My wife has an estate on the Morbihan gulf I’ve not yet visited.’

The rivalry which existed between the King of France and the Duke of Brittany, though friendly, was such that Duke Geoffrey would not dream of admitting any weakness, however insignificant, to the French King.

‘Refusing to pay their dues, are they?’ King Philip continued to probe.

‘Certainly not. But it’s time I showed my face.’

‘I understand.’ A calculating look entered the King’s eyes. ‘Pity you’ll miss the tournament though, Geoffrey.’

Geoffrey of Brittany bowed. ‘I am desolate, sire. But there will be other tournaments.’

‘There will be others. You’ll attend my Christmas court?’

Duke Geoffrey refused to be committed. ‘My thanks. I’ll certainly bear it in mind.’

The King waved the Duke away. ‘Go on with you. And may God watch over you.’

‘And you, sire.’

Philip of France ducked back into the blue silk pavilion.

‘Shall I see our tents packed away, Your Grace?’ Alan asked.

‘Do that. I’ve had my fill of pomp and ceremony.’

After two years in the Duke’s service, Alan knew what he meant. Every day, he thanked God he didn’t have the Duke’s responsibilities, but he nevertheless felt that if he had power he would spend less time feasting and jousting, and more time taking his duties seriously. Until he had joined the Duke, he had no idea that people in such high office could be so devil-may-care. But he did have a liking for his lord as a man. ‘We’re to travel light, Your Grace?’

‘Aye. Choose a handful of like-minded men to ride with us, le Bret, and the baggage can follow at its own pace. I’m not of a mind to trail along.’

***

It was the first of May, and Gwenn woke before dawn. She was excited. Lent being over, today was her parents’ wedding day.

Not wishing to disturb Katarin, she contained herself until the first grey strips of light crept over the broad windowsill. Then she eased herself out of bed, dressed swiftly, and grabbed her cloak from the peg on the door. She padded downstairs. Early as she was, she was not the first to rise, for in the hall the fire had been kicked into life. The men were stirring and mumbling in their blankets, preparing to rise.

Gently, she let herself out, pausing for a moment on the top step to draw in a lungful of fresh air. The sky was wearing its palest colours that morning, mostly blue, but strung out in the east were long, feathery clouds fringed with the gentlest pink. Wood-smoke drifted lazily out of the cookhouse and curled about the yard. She could smell bread baking. Pleased her parents should be granted such a beautiful day, Gwenn smiled and stretched.

Absorbed as she was in the quiet glory of the morning sky, she was slow to observe her Uncle, Waldin St Clair, and Ned Fletcher were in the yard. Sir Waldin was leaning against the trough by the whetstone, and Ned – disobediently, Gwenn persisted in calling her father’s sergeant Ned in her mind – was beside him. They had been shaving, and Ned was firing questions at Sir Waldin. Of late Ned had become Waldin’s second shadow, ceaselessly picking her uncle’s brains on matters military. It was becoming quite an obsession with him.

‘And you, sir?’ Ned was asking. ‘Which type of helm would you recommend?’

‘What, in a tourney? If it’s safety you’re after, I’d go for the closed pot, Fletcher. It’s more likely to stay in place, but it’s very restricting in terms of vision, and my personal preference is for one of the lighter ones.’

‘And the disadvantages?’

Ned wanted to know it all, but at that moment Gwenn’s uncle became aware of her presence.

‘Good morrow, niece!’

Blushing slightly, for Ned’s bright blue eyes transferred immediately to her, Gwenn flung her cloak about her shoulders and said cheerfully, ‘Good morrow, Sir Waldin. Sergeant Fletcher.’

‘Fine day for the wedding,’ the champion said, in a friendly manner.

‘It is indeed.’ Gwenn was curious about her uncle. He had not shown himself to be the greatest conversationalist, except with Ned, when it seemed he never stopped, but this had only fuelled her determination to find out more about him. At thirty two, Waldin St Clair was ten years younger than his brother, and in his looks he was far from the courtly champion of Gwenn’s romantic imaginings. She was not, she told herself firmly, disappointed, but he was not at all as she remembered him. Her father maintained an air of easy elegance, and Gwenn had assumed that his brother, the famous victor of many a joust, would have his share of that quality. This was not the case. The two brothers were quite unalike.

This morning, her uncle was scantly clad in linen chainse and breeches. He had rolled up his sleeves to reveal brawny arms thickly covered with dark hairs. The veins on his hands stood out like corded rope. His shirt hung open to the waist, and Gwenn averted her eyes from the mat of vigorous hair covering her uncle’s broad chest. Waldin’s neck was thick and sinewy. His eyes, like his brother’s, were brown; but his brows were blacker and thicker and quirked upwards. His nose was squat and, having been broken more than once, sat slightly askew. Most of his front teeth were chipped or cracked. No one, however partial, could call Waldin handsome, but as the champion had never had any pretensions to vanity, this had never concerned him. There did not appear to be any subtlety in either Waldin’s person or his manner.

He winked at his niece and, plunging his head into the trough, re-emerged scattering bright droplets. He squatted down on his haunches before Ned. ‘Get on with it, Fletcher,’ he said.

Ned grasped Waldin’s head and began shaving the crown.

‘What are you doing?’ Gwenn demanded, as handfuls of thick brown hair dropped to the ground.

Waldin squinted up at her. ‘What does it look like?’

‘Keep your head braced, sir,’ Ned advised, ‘or my hand might slip.’

‘What are you doing?’ Gwenn repeated.

Ned’s hands stopped their work and ardent blue eyes met hers. Gwenn felt her cheeks warm. He ought not to look at her like that in front of her uncle, especially after what her father had said.

‘I’m shaving his hair off,’ Ned said, and his burning eyes came to rest on her mouth.

His naked longing was too much for Gwenn. She looked away. ‘I...I can see that. But why?’

‘It’s an old habit of mine,’ Waldin explained, as Ned reapplied himself to his task. ‘I let it grow to see how I liked it, but I prefer it shaved. I found it convenient when on the tourney circuit, and I see no reason for changing my habits because I have retired. In high summer, when you spend most of your waking hours crowned with a metal pot, you work up a fair sweat. It’s easier to wash a bald pate.’

‘It looks odd. It’s all white,’ Gwenn observed, intrigued.

Her uncle’s lips twitched. ‘You’d be surprised how quickly it browns.’

‘Even when crowned with your helmet?’

‘I don’t spend every second in a helm.’

Ned had worked round to the back of Waldin’s skull, and as the hair there fell away, Gwenn gasped. ‘You’ve cut him, Ned!’

Dismayed, Ned snatched back his hands. ‘Cut him? No, I’m sure I have not.’ But, staring at the jagged red mark which was emerging from under the champion’s hair, Ned felt a twinge of doubt. ‘Sir?’

Sir Waldin ran his hand over the back of his head. ‘You’re alright, lad. It’s nought but an old scar you are uncovering. The consequences of my preference for a lighter helm. Pray continue.’

Ned resumed shaving, and when he had done, the full extent of the scar was revealed. Purple in places, the skin was shiny and puckered up.

Waldin stood up, flexed his knees, and ran an appraising hand over Ned Fletcher’s handiwork. ‘Not bad.’

‘It will need doing again,’ Ned said, rinsing the razor in a bucket.

Waldin gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Aye. I reckon on once a month.’ A bushy brow rose. ‘You volunteering, lad?’

‘If you’re content to trust me, I’d be glad to do it for you, sir.’

‘Good lad. I’d rather you than that dozy bunch in the hall.’ Waldin nodded his thanks, and Ned, with one last glance in Gwenn’s direction, saluted and walked off. The tourney champion hadn’t missed the way his niece had recoiled on first seeing his scar. Dismay? Or disgust? ‘I’m told it’s not pretty,’ he said. He had not made up his mind what to think of his niece, but he felt duty bound to try and like her. Waldin had the feeling she had been disappointed in him though she had never said as much.

Gwenn stared a moment longer at the mark on his skull and then said in a very matter-of-fact manner, ‘It is quite repellent. I hope, sir, that it no longer pains you.’

Her blunt honesty warmed him and he laughed. ‘I don’t feel a thing.’ His clothes were lying in an untidy jumble by the side of the trough. He picked them up, shrugged himself into his tunic, and in doing so noticed Ned Fletcher’s fair hair shining in the strengthening sun as the young sergeant looked down from the battlements. A silver-helmed guard came to stand at his side and then Ned Fletcher clapped his own helmet on, and Waldin could not mark the difference between them. Poor lad, Waldin thought sympathetically. He’s got it badly. He could ruin himself over her. Waldin had heard his brother and Yolande speaking in disparaging terms of their English sergeant’s infatuation with their daughter. Apparently the lad had been warned off, and if something were not done soon, he was heading for dismissal. A shame, Waldin reckoned, when of the dozen men currently manning his brother’s tower, the sergeant showed most promise. The two men withdrew from his sight, gone into the guardhouse, no doubt.

Waldin considered Gwenn. He had seen spoilt knights’ daughters by the waggonload on his travels, and most of them had their heads stuffed so full of their own consequence that they only counted the hearts they had broken. Had his brother bred another of these? He wanted to think there was more to his pretty niece than that.

Waldin did not view the Saxon’s lowly birth as being an impediment in the way his brother did. Waldin was no snob, far from it. He had seen many a low-born lad start life as a servant and work his way up to squire. A select few attained the dizzy heights of knighthood, and Waldin saw nothing wrong in that. Tested men often made better knights than those born to it. However, it was becoming clear that Ned Fletcher was unsuitable for his niece, although it was for none of the reasons Yolande and Jean had put forward.

‘I don’t believe in hiding things, you see,’ he said, rubbing his disfigurement as though it were a badge of honour. ‘I like them out in the open.’

A frown nicked Gwenn’s brow. ‘What do you mean, Uncle? You sound as though you’re trying to score a hit. Are you?’

Waldin grinned. He liked people who were quick off the mark. A swift glance assured him that Ned Fletcher had not reappeared on the battlements, and he plunged straight in. ‘What do you intend to do with Sergeant Fletcher?’