The Stone Rose (46 page)

‘Th...thank you.’ Philippe’s mouth was gaping like a hungry fledgling’s. The monks had provided Gwenn with a thin, milky gruel of soaked oats, and she tried to spoon it in, but she was unused to feeding her brother, and most of the gruel dripped down his chin. Johanna had made feeding him look so easy.

‘What do you plan to do?’

Trusting a dribble had gone down her brother’s throat, Gwenn answered. ‘We’re going north.’

‘North? Why north?’

Ned explained. ‘We go to Ploumanach. Gwenn has kinfolk there.’

Alan looked sceptically at the children. ‘And you travel with these infants?’

‘What do you expect us to do with them?’ Gwenn glared indignantly at Alan. ‘Leave them behind? We have to get my brother to safety. The Count will kill him if he can.’

Alan rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Why should de Roncier hurt your brother, mistress?’

‘My father married my mother, and Philippe was born after their marriage.’ Her brown eyes were bright with defiance, as though she expected him to deride her own birth.

He caught her drift at once, and did not mock her. ‘So the babe is St Clair’s
legitimate
heir? Jesu. Poor sod. Poor, innocent, little sod.’

‘Alan!’ Ned said.

Placidly, Gwenn spooned more mess into her brother. After a pause, during which she shovelled with grim concentration, her head lifted. ‘So you see we must get them away. The Count will not rest until his position is secure.’ Sensing he did not have all of his sister’s attention, Philippe seized his chance, grabbed the spoon, and gruel slopped onto the floor. ‘Hell’s Teeth, Philippe, why did you do that?’

Alan covered his mouth with his hand and couldn’t bring himself to look at Ned. Gwenn mopped up the spill, recaptured the spoon, and continued her battle with the gruel.

‘I thought one of the ports would be the best bet, Alan,’ Ned said. ‘We’ve enough money to hire passage on a coastal trader. It’s by far the swiftest route – we’ll have them safe in a couple of days.’

‘We?’ Alan murmured, a slight frown nicking his brow.

‘That’s my plan. What do you think of it?’

Alan remembered the fleet of de Roncier ships jostling at their moorings on Vannes quayside. ‘Not much.’

‘What’s wrong with it? You can’t tell me it would be quicker to ride to Ploumanach?’

The fire had taken hold, and while he put his mind to his cousin’s problem, Alan kicked more wood onto the flames. Sitting down, he crossed his legs, pulled his cloak from under his sword, and spread it out to dry.

‘Alan?’

‘Take your ease while I mull this one over.’ Ned sat down. ‘Listen, Ned. If de Roncier is after the babe, the ports are the first place he will go. His men are crawling all over them – I know, I saw them in Vannes the day before yesterday.’ Alan glanced at the plump bundle now dozing contented as a cat in Gwenn’s arms. More by luck than good management, St Clair’s heir had eaten his fill. ‘You are quite sure he’s after the babe?’

‘There’s no doubt of it.’

‘I advise you to go by land. Hire a guide with the money you would have spent on a ship. Inland Brittany is mostly forest, and if you find a guide with knowledge of the byways you should be safe enough. It’s wooded almost all the way, the trees will be your shield.’

Ned pursed his lips and looked at Gwenn to assess her reaction. ‘It would take five days, maybe more, even with horses, which we haven’t got.’

‘We could buy mounts,’ Gwenn put in. ‘Do you think the good brothers would sell us that noisy old mule?’

Alan was not free to offer his services as their guide, being committed to the Duke, but he could help with horses. ‘I’ve a mare I think might suit you,’ he said.

‘A mare?’

Alan picked his words carefully. ‘I found her running loose on the road to Kermaria. She must have escaped her stall in the...confusion. Mistress, I think by rights she is yours anyway.’

‘Where is she? Show me.’ Gwenn thrust Philippe at Katarin. The instant she saw the brown palfrey tethered alongside Alan’s courser, large tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. ‘It’s Dancer!’ she cried. ‘Oh, thank you, Alan! Thank you!’ And, flinging her arms about Ned’s bemused cousin, she planted a grateful kiss on his cheek and darted to the mare’s head.

Alan rubbed the spot she had kissed, conscious that he was unshaven and bristly. Catching Ned’s eyes on him, he felt impelled to speak. ‘Your wife’s not altered much. Impulsive as ever.’

Ned bent an adoring gaze to where Gwenn was whispering in Dancer’s ear. ‘I hope you are right, Alan. I don’t want her to change, but I’m afraid that these blows must sour her sweet nature.’

‘Sweet?’ Alan raised a questioning brow. He remembered the doll-like creature the mob had chased in Vannes. That image had misled him, there had always been more to Gwenn Herevi than that. ‘Love blinds you, Ned. Gwenn Herevi was never sweet. Determined, aye. A little madam, aye, but sweet–’

‘She’s Gwenn Fletcher now,’ Ned reminded him without heat, ‘and dear to my heart.’

‘If you think your wife is sweet after you’ve been wed three months, I’ll give you a bag of fresh-minted pennies. You always were besotted with the girl.’ There was a desperate yearning in his cousin’s face, as though he ached for something he could never have, which was odd in a man who had succeeded in marrying the woman of his dreams. However, the conversation was taking too emotional a turn for Alan’s liking. ‘And now you have wed her,’ Alan grinned, ‘you have what you desire.’

‘Have I?’ Ned muttered, so low Alan thought he must have misheard him. Ned lifted soulful blue eyes. ‘Will you accompany us, Alan? You’ve learned the lie of the land as well as any guide we could hire.’

‘My apologies, cousin,’ Alan shook his head. ‘I’m sworn to the Duke, and I’ve some business of his to conclude in the area.’ He saw no need at this stage to enlighten Ned as to the exact nature of his business at Kermaria.

‘You won the post you wanted?’

‘Aye. I’m Captain of Duke Geoffrey’s personal guard.’

‘You’ve done well. I knew you would. You must have worked hard.’

‘I did work. But luck played its part,’ Alan admitted. ‘I like His Grace and he–’

‘He likes you,’ Ned finished.

Alan gave one of his twisted, self-deprecating smiles. ‘Aye. It would appear that he does. Strange, isn’t it?’

‘You know it is not,’ Ned said shortly. ‘Now, Alan, about your being our guide...’

‘I’ve only been granted a few days’ leave. Duke Geoffrey’s expecting me back in Rennes, and I’ve a survey to conduct on some tenants of his.’

Ned bit his lip. ‘Of course, we shall make our own way if we must. But you are the ideal man, Alan.’

Overhearing, Gwenn came back and, putting her hand on her husband’s arm, added her plea. ‘Do say you will help us, Alan. We can trust you.’

Alan laughed to lighten the mood, for the pair of them looked very grave and he didn’t want them sinking their hooks into him. ‘I never thought to hear you say that to me, Mistress Blanche.’

On hearing Alan’s nickname for his wife, Ned looked sharply from one to the other.

‘You’re cruel to ridicule me,’ Gwenn said. ‘But I understand why you do it. You think to avoid helping us by rousing my pride. But what use is pride to me?’

‘You
have
changed.’

‘Yesterday changed me forever. Yesterday stripped me naked. My father was hacked down, and my brother, and a much-loved uncle. I have no home. Indeed, I had no future till Ned chose to give me one. I have nothing, only,’ she pointed at the guesthouse, ‘those children. And if I have any say in the matter, they will reach a safe port. So don’t think that anger will lift me out of my supplicant’s role, Alan le Bret, for I have been purged of pride, of anger, of...everything. All I have left is my love for those children, and Ned, of course. And if going down on my knees and begging might help them, then I’ll do it, and not mind it. Help us. Please. We need you.’

‘I’ve orders to be with the Duke in Rennes in five days’ time,’ Alan said, uncomfortably.

Ned put out a hand. ‘You could spare us a week, Alan. Send one of the brothers with a message to Duke Geoffrey. Surely a week is no matter.’

‘If it takes five days to reach Ploumanach with the children, it will take another three for me to get back. Add to that a couple of days for setbacks, and it would be more like two weeks.’

‘Take two then,’ Gwenn urged.

‘No.’

‘Alan, please.’

‘No! I will not break faith with the Duke. You can look elsewhere for your guide.’ And wishing he didn’t feel like a snake, Alan turned on his heel and marched towards the monks’ cookhouse, from which was wafting the mouth-watering smell of Brother Peter’s new batch of bread.

***

Even in broad daylight when the door was bolted, the vault under the hall of Kermaria Manor was as dark as the anchorite’s cell. The only source of natural light was down the air vent; and as the light must squeeze past an army of weeds and a carpet of moss that had sprung up on the damp stones of the airway, the daylight was filtered almost to nothing.

The day before, when Nicholas Warr had locked the two women in the undercroft, he had provided them with a candle. It had burned out long ago, and although Johanna had unearthed a stub in a wall sconce, that had not lasted either, and for several hours Johanna and Mary had been sitting in tomb-like darkness.

‘This place is as black as night, but it must be tomorrow by now,’ Mary whispered. ‘I’m thirsty. Johanna, do you think they’ve forgotten we’re here?’

‘No.’ The wet nurse was wondering how Ned Fletcher was faring. Had he got away? Was
she
still with him? And what of her baby?

‘Then why don’t they come?’ Mary went on. ‘They must be simple if they think they can starve us into submission. Why, one of those casks of salt beef would keep the two of us going for a year, and I know there were at least half a dozen at the last tally.’

‘Hunger’s not the weapon they are using,’ Johanna said abstractedly. If the Viking had not returned, then he must be on Ned Fletcher’s trail. Which must mean that her beloved was free... Johanna realised Mary was waiting for her to add more. ‘They have another weapon up their sleeves, and they’re waiting for it to bite.’

‘Another weapon?’ Mary shivered. ‘What might that be, Johanna? I can’t say I like it here, the damp’s making my muscles creak like a rusty gate, but we have everything we need: beef, cheeses, smoked fish, wine, ale.’

‘No wine, and no ale,’ Johanna said. ‘Don’t you remember, they removed the casks they’d not drunk dry?’

‘Aye, so they did. But we have everything else.’

‘Everything save what we need most. We have no water. And already we are thirsty.’

Mary blinked into an infinity of blackness. Her sigh rustled like a breeze playing through dry, dead leaves. ‘Water. I see. How long do you think they’ll wait?’

‘Who knows? But if I had any pennies to wager, I’d say that when they do come in, they’ll be drinking themselves. They will want to torment us.’ Johanna usually avoided contact with members of her own sex, but she found herself groping for Holy Mary’s arm. ‘Mary, I’m truly sorry they have you in here. I thought they’d release you with the others.’

‘I’m glad to be here,’ Mary lied stoically. ‘I am glad to share in your courage, Johanna. You are a brave, loyal girl, and I’d not have you face them alone.’

‘I’m not brave. And I’m certainly not the least bit loyal,’ Johanna said. ‘I only...only wanted the babe to be safe.’ And Ned Fletcher, she added silently.

‘You
are
brave, Johanna,’ Mary insisted with the confident, ringing tones of a brimstone preacher. ‘You can dress it how you will, but I know you are brave. And seeing you – the only one out of all of us with the faith to face that...that monster of a man – why, you inspired me.’ Mary clasped Johanna’s hand. ‘We’ll face them together.’

This was the first time that Johanna had drawn comfort from another woman’s touch, used as she was to viewing all other women as potential rivals. She returned the pressure on her hand, answering huskily, ‘Aye. We face them together.’

The scraping of the bolt made an end to conversation. Light angled into the vault. Two men entered, the Viking Captain and Nicholas Warr. As Johanna had predicted, Malait was clutching a waterskin.

Getting hastily to their feet, the women exchanged glances. Mary licked parched lips. Johanna wondered about Ned Fletcher. Neither of them smiled.

‘Good morning, my pretties.’ Otto swaggered towards them, tantalisingly swinging the waterskin from a thong wrapped round his solid wrist. ‘I thought it was time we had our little chat. Warr?’

‘Captain?’

‘Secure the door, and bring that lamp over. I want to mark their expressions.’

‘Aye, sir.’

The Viking raised his water bottle and, removing the stopper, took a long pull. Water dribbled down his chin, and the rivulets were soaked up in his forest of a beard. Both women stared fixedly at the lamp the archer was carrying. ‘Not thirsty, eh?’ In the beard, the wide mouth curved. ‘Pity. You won’t want this, then.’ Upending the container, Malait poured the contents onto the floor.

Mary shut her eyes and her dry throat tried in vain to swallow.

‘You’ve a visitor, little spy,’ the captain said, looking at Johanna.

Mary’s hand jerked in Johanna’s, and the wet nurse felt the other woman’s eyes boring into her. ‘A visitor?’

‘Your brother. He’s anxious for your welfare. Shall I send him in?’

‘You’ve already decided what you will do,’ Johanna said, dully. ‘Nothing I say will have any effect on your actions.’

Otto did not gainsay her.

Mary had withdrawn her hand from Johanna’s and was regarding her suspiciously. ‘What does he mean, Johanna? Little spy? You could not have been in this man’s employ. Johanna?’

‘Oh, be quiet, Mary, can’t you see he seeks to break our amity?’

Otto’s thick finger stabbed at Mary. ‘You, get upstairs. I want you to show me where St Clair is supposed to have buried his brat. While you, little spy, can wait here. I’ll send Conan down when we’ve found the grave.’

The faintest of sighs slid past Johanna’s full lips. Ned Fletcher must have got the babe away. Both must be safe.