The Stone Rose (32 page)

‘You ought to try and forget the tournaments, Waldin,’ Jean said. ‘You were courting disaster to go on as long as you did, and at your ripe old age you’d be begging for it.’

‘It’s a form of madness, I cannot deny that,’ Waldin agreed. ‘But there’s glory in it.’

Jean looked tenderly at the sleeping child in his arms. ‘I’ve never understood your fascination with glory, Waldin. When it comes down to it, you end up spilling a gallon of blood, and it seems to me it’s largely a matter of chance whether it’s your blood or someone else’s.’

‘I understand,’ Ned put in.

‘Heaven help us,’ Jean said, in a resigned voice. ‘Your prating about glory is unsettling my men, Waldin.’ He glanced warmly at Ned. ‘I want to keep my sergeant. I don’t want to lose him to the jousts.’

‘Oh, I’d come back, sir, but it’s good to dream.’

Raymond felt it was time he stuck his oars in. ‘Dream!’ He snorted. ‘All you ever do is dream.’ Predictably, Ned flushed. Raymond turned his fire on his uncle. ‘And as for wasting yourself for glory’s sake, Uncle, I agree with my father. You’re mad. I would only risk myself for something...tangible.’

Waldin’s brown eyes narrowed. ‘Like an inheritance, perhaps?’ he suggested softly. He was hoping his nephew was merely stirring the pot to see what was in it.

Raymond took his time answering. ‘Aye. I’d say an inheritance was worth fighting for. Father, do you not agree?’ But his father’s attention was fixed on the sounds filtering down the solar stairs. ‘Father?’

‘What’s that you said, Raymond?’

‘I was telling my uncle that I wouldn’t risk my neck for glory alone.’

‘No.’ Jean’s eyes were glued to the rafters. He stroked his daughter’s hair. ‘I’ve always needed something to fight for myself.’

Lurching for the wine, Raymond forged on, making what he thought was a winning point. ‘Being the eldest son, Papa, you had something to fight for. Whereas Waldin, being the poor, younger son, had to make do with glory.’

‘I’ve been content, lad,’ Waldin put in, quickly.

‘You might have been. I–’

A muffled shriek leeched the colour from Jean’s cheeks. ‘Sweet Jesus, does she have to suffer so?’

‘Here, Jean, have a drink,’ Waldin suggested. ‘It will help you forget–’

‘Forget? God’s Teeth, Waldin! How the bloody hell do you think I can forget that she is suffering?’

‘It will help you relax.’ Firmly, Waldin pressed an earthenware cup into his brother’s hand. ‘Take it. You look like a death’s-head.’

Jean caught Ned’s sympathetic glance on him and knew he must set an example. An excess of sympathy never made for efficient fighting men, and Ned Fletcher was not the only one of his troop in the hall. Denis the Red and some others had drifted in for their evening meal. The mistress of the household might be fighting for her life, but the evening meals must still be served. Now why had he picked on that unfortunate phrase? God grant that Yolande was
not
fighting for her life...

Jean cleared his throat. ‘Sergeant Fletcher?’ He was pleased how curt his voice came out.

Ned sat up. ‘Sir?’

‘Do you recall when the armourer said that he’d have the links mended on my spare coat of mail?’

‘Aye, sir. He promised it for the first of the month.’

‘So you could collect it on the morrow?’

‘If you wish, sir.’

‘Leave at first light, will you, Sergeant? That way you should be there and back by sunset.’

‘Very well, sir.’

An agonised groan floated into the hall and though it was muted and cut off sharply, it succeeded in killing conversation. Jean clenched his fingers round his wine cup and stared blankly at the trencher someone had set before him. Desperately he tried to order his thoughts. If it was a boy, he must put his house in order. He didn’t trust de Roncier to let well alone if it was a boy. If the infant was a girl...

Another muffled shriek had him burying his face in his daughter’s soft hair. He felt a tentative touch on his shoulder and looked up. The turnspit was standing beside him, a question in his eyes. ‘Roast beef, sir?’

A platter of beef swimming in red juices was waved under his nose. Jean’s gorge rose and he waved the meat away. ‘Not for me. I’ve no appetite this evening.’ He lifted resigned eyes to his brother. ‘It would appear that it is going to be long night, Waldin.’

Waldin dipped his head in acknowledgement. What they needed was something to speed the passage of time. ‘Mulled wine might help.’

Jean knew it wouldn’t, but he dragged on the best smile he had. ‘My thanks, Waldin.’

D
uke Geoffrey of Brittany had a hunting lodge at Suscinio on the remote Rhuys peninsular. This long arm of land curved around the Small Sea, or Morbihan Gulf, and held back the worst of the weather from the larger ocean – the Morbraz. Miles from the town of Vannes, the land was wild and windswept – even the trees had been bent out of shape. The Duke’s lodge was an unpretentious wattle and daub building with a beaten earth floor, mean as any villein’s hovel. No lady would set foot in the place, which was one of the reasons Duke Geoffrey chose it for his bolt-hole. There were times when he felt the need to escape the restrictions his responsibilities imposed on him, and his lodge at least provided adequate protection from the elements.

That August night, while Yolande St Clair laboured to give birth to her fourth child, Alan le Bret lay on his cloak at his Duke’s side at Suscinio, listening to the wind whistling through the thatch. ‘Makes you shiver to listen to it,’ he said, hands linked behind his head, ‘and everywhere else your people are sweating the fat off their ribs in the heat.’

‘Aye,’ Duke Geoffrey answered, lazily paring his nails with his dagger. ‘It’s always cool here. I hope you don’t resent me dragging you from Rennes, le Bret. Did you have a sweetheart there?’

‘No sweetheart,’ Alan said. ‘And I’m glad you brought me, Your Grace, because I’ve a brother at a monastery on this peninsular, very close by, and a visit’s long overdue.’

‘I didn’t know you had a brother, le Bret, let alone one in holy orders.’

‘He’s a novice and his name is William.’

‘You want leave to see him?’

‘Please. He’s at the monastery of St Gildas and–’

The Duke cut him off with a gracious wave of his hand and reached for the lantern. ‘Granted. But not on the morrow, le Bret. My forester tells me there’s a wolf on the prowl, and I’ve a mind to nail its head on that beam. We’ll be up before dawn and in the saddle all day.’ The Duke stuck his dagger into the beaten earth floor, and closed the lantern, throwing them into inky darkness. His languid voice floated gently through the murk, ‘You may visit your brother the next day, le Bret.’

‘My thanks, Your Grace.’

***

The following morning, in the grey hour before sunrise, the Kermaria cockerel stirred, blinked once, twice, gave his head a comb-waggling shake and tipped his head sideways to listen to the warm, sighing exhalations of the sleeping horses. His black eyes winked up at the sky. It was cloudless as it had been these several months past, and the light would be faint for another half hour. It was not quite time for him to crow, not quite time for him to wake the world and announce that morning had come.

A whisper of sound sent the cockerel’s head swivelling in the direction of the tower. Up there, riding on the soft morning breeze, so weak that it was almost inaudible, was the thin, reedy cry of a newborn infant. Another noise was adrift on the breeze...someone was sobbing, and a phrase was being repeated over and over again. ‘Don’t go, Mama! Don’t go!
Mama
!’ The voice faded. More exhausted sobbing. But the cockerel had stopped listening, the sounds had no meaning for him. All he knew was that someone else was awake. Early or not, his duty was plain. He flung back his head and crowed the new day in.

***

‘I’ll take the baby down. Papa must be...told,’ Gwenn said, as soon as they’d made her mother’s body decent.

‘Are you sure you want to do it?’ the midwife asked, handing the infant to the dead woman’s daughter with ill-concealed relief.

‘It will be best if he hears it from me.’ Gwenn read concern in Berthe’s eyes and tried to smile. ‘I’m well enough,’ she said. Didn’t duty decree it? ‘In any event, I can’t bear to bide here for another moment.’

‘I understand,’ the midwife said. The commingled smells of birth and death were overpowering for those not inured to them. ‘You tell Sir Jean. I’ll...tidy up.’

Do you understand? Do you really? Gwenn thought bleakly as she stumbled on legs made of wood towards the twisting turn of stairs. Her eyes were sore with the few tears she had shed, but aside from that she felt quite dead. She was cold inside, but it was a numb coldness – as though all the feeling had gone out of her, and she had truly turned to wood. It would have been a relief to have been able to indulge in a fit of shaking and sobbing and screaming.

At the bottom of the stairs, Gwenn snapped off the thread of her thoughts. Cradling the newest member of the family against her breast, she lifted the latch.

Outside, the cock was crowing. A solitary candle, burned to its last inch, guttered in the draught. Her eyes swept the room, seeking her father. Jean had borrowed a pallet and pulled it up to the fire. He was asleep, Katarin beside him. Gwenn’s heart went out to him – to both of them. She must tell him at once. She stepped into the hall.

‘Good morning, mistress!’ Ned said, moving towards Gwenn, smiling. ‘Mistress Gwenn?’ His smile disappeared. ‘What’s amiss? Is the child...?’

On hearing his sergeant’s voice, Jean sat up abruptly, dislodging Katarin. He was at Gwenn’s side before she had time to blink. Lightly, he touched at the bundle in Gwenn’s arm. ‘The child?’

Gwenn strove to keep her features in order. ‘Aye.’ Her windpipe closed up.

Her father plucked at the baby’s wrappings. ‘It looks small. Is it healthy?’ Almost afraid, he stared at his child. A boy, or a girl?

Around them everyone was surfacing. Raymond groaned and groped for a flagon. Waldin yawned and stretched. And all the while Ned’s blue eyes were nailed to Gwenn’s face. So much compassion flowed from him, it was almost her undoing. Ned had guessed. Gwenn felt tears prick behind her eyes and tried to gulp down the lump that was stuck in the base of throat. She must tell her father – and this instant. ‘Aye, the babe is healthy. Papa–’

‘Boy or girl?’ Raymond demanded, knuckling sleep from his eyes.

‘A boy. The boy Papa so wanted.’ Gwenn tried to infuse some joy into her voice, very much aware that it should be Yolande who was presenting the child to her family. Her mother had so wanted to give Jean his legitimate heir. ‘We have a brother, Raymond.’

‘A boy.’ Raymond looked appalled. He hawked and spat into the rushes. ‘Naturally, it would be.’ Twisting round on his heel, he stormed out, without waiting to hear the other, more dreadful part of Gwenn’s news.

Jean strode to the stair door and looked back with his hand on the latch. Gwenn flinched to see his face so wreathed with smiles. ‘I’m going upstairs,’ he spoke with quiet pride. ‘I’m going to see my wife.’

‘No! Blessed Mother, no!’

Her father tossed her an indulgent smile. ‘I know she’ll be tired, Gwenn. I won’t stay long. I won’t exhaust her.’

Thrusting her new brother at Ned, Gwenn launched herself at her father. ‘No. Papa!’ Warm tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. ‘Please don’t. Not yet.’

Jean’s smile faded painfully slowly. Stone-still, he drew in a harsh breath and stared at his daughter in a puzzled, uncomprehending way. ‘Gwenn?’ His voice came loud in the gruesome quiet. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

Gwenn choked down a sob. It was a little like watching someone die from the inside out. ‘Mama has gone to God, Papa.’

Her father’s gaze lifted to the ceiling, halting at the place above which his bed should lie. He aged a hundred years in a moment. White-faced, he stared at the rafters as though his eyes would pierce solid oak and see through to where his wife’s body lay.

‘No.
No.
’ His voice broke. What evil curse hung over him that now, when his star was in the ascendant, his plans should turn to ashes? He had taken it for granted that Yolande would be at his side. Without her, there was...nothing. ‘How could you let her go?’ His accusation tore at Gwenn’s heartstrings.

‘It...it was a difficult birth. We did our best.’

‘Jesu, Gwenn,’ Jean said quickly, shocked by his hasty words, ‘you don’t have to tell me that. Accept my...my...I’m sorry.’ He waved at the heir who had cost him his beloved wife. ‘But how could it have happened? That puny child.... He’s so small, how could he...?’

‘Papa, your son came early. And with the heat, Mama was not well. He was in the breech position.’

‘A breech,’ Jean muttered, unable to accept what his daughter was telling him. This could not be happening.

Conscious that every eye in the hall was fastened on him, he squared his shoulders. He ought to say something which would demonstrate to the people in his hall that he remained in control of himself. A man who had not mastered his emotions was not, in his mind, fit to master others. He caught sight of Ned Fletcher awkwardly juggling his newborn son from arm to arm. ‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’ he demanded. ‘It’s well past cockcrow. Don’t you have duties in Vannes?’

‘Sir?’ Ned responded, clearly startled. ‘Oh, the coat of mail. Aye, sir. Sorry, sir.’

Jean looked coldly at the bundle in Ned’s arms. ‘And while you’re about it, Fletcher, see if you can find a wet nurse for that.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Jean faced Gwenn. ‘I shall go up now,’ he said, and his tone brooked no argument.

Gwenn bent her head in acceptance. Her father had withdrawn behind a protective shield of authority while his dazed mind absorbed the shock. In time, she prayed, he would heal.

Ned deposited the babe in Gwenn’s arms and went to take his sword from the rack at the other end of the hall. The last thing he saw as he left was Katarin shoving her thumb into her mouth and Gwenn, head bowed to hide her tears, holding the babe in one arm and hugging her sister with the other.

Wondering miserably which of St Clair’s mounts would best suit a wet nurse, Ned blinked, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and went to choose a couple of horses.