The Stone Rose (3 page)

Two men, red-faced with wine and anger, confronted each other across a table. Mikael waved the wine flask like a flag of truce between them. They were ugly customers these, with calloused hands already clawing out their daggers, they looked like mercenaries. Professional killers. Professional swillers. French mostly. Scum. They drove away good, honest Breton locals. Mikael did not have time to ponder on their being in his tavern.

‘It’s on the house!’ he bawled over the din. The bellowing subsided and an astonished silence gripped his auditors. Four drink-hazed eyes locked onto the flask as though it was the Holy Grail. Mikael’s lips twitched. His supposition had been correct. They
were
mercenaries. And the mercenary had not been born that would turn down an offer of free wine. Daggers clicked back into sheaths, the flagon vanished from his hand and the two mercenaries flopped back onto their benches. The regular hum of conversation resumed. Mikael rolled his eyes to the rafters, and suppressed a grin. The free wine trick worked every time. It was like pouring oil on troubled waters. Jesu, but it was busier than market day, Mikael thought, squinting at the ungovernable crew filling his benches.

Tristan was at his elbow, a worried crease wrinkling his forehead. ‘It’s noisy, sir,’ Tristan said.

Mikael nodded brusquely. ‘Aye. And hot.’ He waited for Tristan to go about his business, but the lad fixed him with a peculiarly intense stare and didn’t budge. ‘Tristan?’

‘Shall I fetch help? We...we’re a bit short of it this morning, I think.’ Again that intense, meaningful stare.

Mikael grinned and gave the boy a playful punch in the stomach. ‘A kind thought, but there’s no need. I’m not in my dotage yet. We can handle them. Go and tap that new barrel in the yard.’

Tristan gazed at his employer a moment longer, then he nodded and turned away.

The boy was right about the noise. It was reaching unbearable levels. And the lack of air was stifling. Using the cloth wrapped round his waist, Mikael scrubbed the sweat from his brow. It was not the first time that the advent of a preacher at the Cathedral had doubled his business overnight, but these foreigners – Mikael grimaced – were not the usual run of the mill. He’d take his oath that they’d not a spiritual bone in their bodies. Their kind would sooner die than see the inside of a church. As for their coming to hear the Black Monk – it simply did not tally.

He edged through the door for a breather. It was curious how his regulars had given Duke’s a miss this morning; he hardly recognised a soul. Perhaps they had itches at the backs of their necks, too. Hardly a Breton in sight. His sweat-beaded brow furrowed as he scowled up at his upstairs window. That Frenchman closeted up there had to be paymaster for the rabble below. He racked his brains for the foreigner’s name. Ah! he had it now, François de Roncier. A French count.

The innkeeper cocked a weather eye at the sun. He made it to be after noon. A crowd was gathering round the church porch. Now
there
were the folk he knew. He caught sight of his daughter, Irene, in her pink bliaud, her over-gown, with a basket hanging on arm. If Irene was waiting, the monk would be spouting soon. Irene never wasted time. She was a good girl, was his Irene.

Irene had seen him standing in the doorway. She crossed the square. ‘Why so glum, Father? Custom looks good today.’

Mikael smiled resignedly. ‘Too good, my sweet. Too good. I’d wish them in Hell if I thought it would get rid of them.’

‘Father?’

‘Don’t trouble your head over it, daughter.’

Irene’s red lips curved. ‘I begin to comprehend. Your customers must be French.’

Mikael spared her a startled look. She understood more than he gave her credit for. ‘They are. And I can’t help wondering what Devil’s draught they’re brewing.’

‘Why do you dislike the French so, Father? I’ve always wondered.’

Mikael swiftly ran his mind over the countless border disputes and wrangles that had disrupted the peace in recent years and gave as an honest an answer as he could. ‘It’s not just the French. It’s foreigners in general. They’re all greedy and quarrelsome. Look at the French and English kings; they fight over Brittany like dogs scrapping over a bone. Whenever foreigners appear, Irene, you can bet your last penny that trouble isn’t far behind them.’

Irene digested this. ‘Why are they here this time?’

‘Christ knows. Nothing springs to mind, it’s been quiet of late. The two foreign kings must have been snarling over other bones.’ The innkeeper shot another glance of acute dislike at the upstairs window. ‘I can think of no reason for a French count to be skulking in our private chamber with his pack of hell-hounds straining at the leash.’ Seeing his daughter’s brows twitch together, the innkeeper hastened to reassure her. ‘It’s probably some petty personal feud, my sweet. Though why in God’s name the nobility don’t learn to keep their quarrels to themselves, I don’t know. They’ve no cause to bring chaos to Brittany as well as their own lands.’

‘What will you do?’

Mikael shrugged philosophically. ‘There’s nothing I can do, Irene, except put up with them, fill their bladders with wine and pray they’ll be on their way soon. Don’t you fret. Run along and listen to the monk. All I want you to worry about is fetching those eggs from Stefan after the sermon.’

Irene’s cheeks went the colour of a wild rose. ‘I’m not likely to forget.’

Mikael grinned. His daughter had a liking for young Stefan.

‘But, Father–’

‘The eggs, my girl. Just remember those eggs.’

‘Aye, Father.’

Fondly, the innkeeper watched his daughter walk back to the crowd filing through the Cathedral porch. Like locusts, routiers never stayed long in one place. He grimaced, and wished he’d chosen a more appropriate simile. Locusts only moved on when they’d stripped a place bare.

Mikael didn’t hold with fanciful notions. There was nothing for these men in Vannes. He should find it in his heart to pity them. Mercenaries were only men, flesh and blood like anyone else. Lost souls. A name sprang unbidden to the forefront of his brain. ‘Alan le Bret,’ he muttered. One of de Roncier’s captains had answered to that name. The man must be of Breton origin. ‘Alan le Bret,’ he repeated, shaking his head in disgust. The man was doubly damned in Mikael’s eyes; a Breton hiring himself to a Frenchman – obviously he didn’t have a grain of decency left in him.

He was halfway through the inn door when out of the tail of his eye, Mikael saw a flash of blue. He stiffened, recognising the concubine’s daughter in her silken plumage. The girl danced up to the porch. Only last week she had attempted to befriend his Irene. Mikael did not want his daughter to mix with St Clair’s by-blow, even though it was rumoured her father doted on her. Hesitating, he chewed the inside of his cheek. The maid
looked
harmless, and he was busy. The girl’s veil had slipped and Mikael caught a glimpse of lively, sparkling eyes and an open, honest face. If truth be told, she looked more like a wealthy merchant’s daughter than a concubine’s bastard; pretty, spoilt, over-fond of silks and satins, full of mischief, but perfectly respectable. The irony of it never ceased to amaze him.

Dubiously, he eyed the girl smiling at Irene. He took a step towards them. Then he stopped. Nay. As an innkeeper he had learned the value of tolerance and though the child’s birth caused her to be shunned by most reputable folk, Mikael would take his oath there was no wickedness in her. She went to St Peter’s with her stiff-necked grandmother often enough. Let her make friends where she could.

A roar from inside the tavern drew Mikael’s gaze. He sighed. He had some real riffraff to worry about this morning. At least the concubine’s daughter had Breton blood in her veins, not like most of the dregs that had drifted into his tavern. With luck it would not be long before his inn was clear of them. Mikael prayed that his stocks of wine and cider would last. He did not want to be the one to have to tell this lawless pack of thieves their fun was over.

A down-at-heel pedlar slid past Mikael, silent as a wraith, while a crusty voice bawled from within. ‘Hey! Landlord! More wine!’

Regretfully, Mikael exchanged the cool air of the street for the stuffy atmosphere of his tavern, and left his musings for a less fraught day.

***

In the upper chamber of the tavern, Count François de Roncier was conferring in his native tongue with his two mercenary captains. His bulky frame was sprawled untidily over the only chair. A table stood before him. Le Bret and Malait, the captains in question, were perched opposite the Frenchman on three-legged stools designed to stand firm however uneven the floor.

Captain Malait bore the clear stamp of his Nordic ancestors; a handsome, bearded giant in his third decade, he had straggling corn-coloured hair tied back with a length of sheepskin ribbon. Almost beautiful, he was far from effete, with bulging biceps that his short-sleeved tunic was unable to cover. Otto Malait was larger even than his lord, and valued because the power built into his sinews looked ready to burst out at any moment; and as the Norseman was short-tempered, it often did. This had a most salutary effect even on the more hardened routiers in his troop.

By contrast, Captain Alan le Bret – who must have inherited his dark colouring from his Breton forbears – was neat and compact, for all that he was judged exceptionally tall for one of the Breton race. Le Bret’s slender strength would never have the driving force of the Viking’s, but a glance at his cool grey eyes told one that here was a man who had learned the value of total self-control. Half a dozen years younger than Captain Malait, and of a more thoughtful cast of mind, le Bret was not one to mindlessly squander resources – his own, or anyone else’s. Taciturn by nature, he kept his thoughts to himself, yet gave the impression that here was a man with a steel will, with hidden talents held in reserve. For these albeit very different reasons, Alan le Bret’s value to the Count equalled that of the burly Norseman’s. Each was a foil for the other.

The trestle table was cluttered with wineskins and goblets, and the air was thick with wine fumes. Standing at the end of the table confronting the seated men, was a young English trooper, Ned Fletcher.

Fair of face and colouring, and taller than le Bret, the trooper had his feet planted slightly apart in an attitude of defiance. He was very young, and his cheeks were stripped of their usual bright colour. About eighteen, his skin did not bear scars or marks of dissipation as did that of the others in the room. He had the fresh-faced innocence of a peasant farm lad, but his youthfulness was not the only thing that set him apart from his officers. The clarity of his blue eyes hinted that his soul had miraculously escaped contamination by his profession. Ned Fletcher was cousin to Captain le Bret, but he was defying his master, and he knew this would not weigh in his favour.

Alan le Bret glanced at his liege lord. As usual, François de Roncier’s ruined hazel eyes were boring into a wineskin, but then the Count leaned forward and his florid features twisted into an expression of intense, almost petulant, irritation. Alan knew de Roncier to be a dangerous man, and the petulance increased rather than diminished the sense of danger. Alan was looking at a man to whom a whim was reason enough to kill, and the pallor on his cousin’s cheeks confirmed that Ned knew this, and that he was afraid.

‘Repeat that, Fletcher,’ the Count asked with deceptive mildness. ‘I think I must have misheard you.’

‘I...I like not...’ Ned cleared his throat ‘...the sound of this commission,
mon seigneur
.’

When Ned had left England two years ago with Alan, his gift for languages had guaranteed him work far from his homeland. Like most men, Ned could neither read nor write, but he spoke two languages well: his native English, and the French that nobles were wont to use whether in England or on the Continent. He was still coming to grips with the Breton tongue, which Alan, naturally, had learned from his father.

Alan saw the Count’s freckled fingers reach for the wineskin and toy with its stopper. An ugly silence fell. De Roncier let it drag on deliberately, doubtless to unnerve Ned. He succeeded. Ned’s pallor grew more marked. Alan held his peace. It was not for him to interfere unless he had to. Ned had put his head in this particular noose himself. He would have to get himself out of it on his own.

At length, the Count broke the hush by tapping his fingers sharply on the edge of the table. ‘You interrupt our discussion to tell us you mislike this commission, Fletcher?’ The Frenchman shifted, his chair squealed a protest and the bloodshot eyes flickered at Alan. ‘One of yours, le Bret?’

Alan tossed back his blue-black fringe. ‘Aye,
mon seigneur
. I’ll have him disciplined. Fletcher, get back below. I’ll see to you later.’

Alan’s cousin opened his mouth to protest, but when the soft, cornflower blue eyes clashed with Alan’s, he had the sense to falter. Alan gave an almost imperceptible headshake, Ned’s mouth snapped shut, he turned on his heel, and to Alan’s relief he went to the door.

Captain Malait was taking no interest in the proceedings; indeed, he appeared to be sinking into sleep, blond head pillowed on his strong arms.

De Roncier teased the stopper from the wineskin and, disdaining the goblets, raised it to his lips. ‘Malait’s had a skinful,’ he observed, though all of them knew that the Norseman was no more out of commission than the Count himself was. Even when reeling drunk not a man in Malait’s troop would dare disobey him.

Otto Malait’s pale eyes opened. He stretched, and glanced towards the door. ‘Moralisers always send me to sleep.’

To Alan’s dismay his cousin was hovering on the threshold. Biting back a groan, he spoke coldly, ‘Fletcher?’

Ned started, and large, haunted eyes looked pleadingly across at him. Alan tightened his jaw, and kept his face expressionless. Devil take the young fool. Not for the first time, Alan regretted bringing Ned with him to Brittany. Ned should have stayed home on the farm in Richmond, he was not adapted to this life. If Ned was going to succeed in de Roncier’s company, he should try using his brains instead of diving into something he knew nothing about with woolly, half-formed objections. It was time he learned to accept realities. They were mercenaries now, not peasant farmers. ‘Get someone to bring up a jug of the local cider, will you, Fletcher?’ Alan spoke in English, with a steely edge to his voice. ‘I mislike this wine.’