The Stone Rose (7 page)

‘It could
kill
our children, if that thieving vulture strikes again!’ She saw Jean’s jaw harden.

‘Be reasonable, woman,’ he said, striking a fist against his thigh. ‘It’s for the best. Think of our children’s future.’

‘Our children’s future?’ Yolande spoke so quietly that Jean had to bend his head to hear her. ‘If you sacrifice any more of the present, they’ll have no future left.’

Sighing, Jean draped an arm round her. ‘It won’t be for much longer. I’ll write to Waldin.’

‘Waldin? Pah! You’ve not been in touch for years.’

‘I’ll write,’ Jean insisted, ‘and enlist his aid. We were close before he left to fight his way through the tourneys. He may be a champion, but I don’t think he will resist a call to arms from his brother. Waldin will come home, and you, my love, will be forced to eat your scornful words. Soon we’ll be in a position to strike. Soon.’

‘And you’ll take us to Kermaria?’ If Jean refused her, Yolande would be forced to sell the gem and flee.

The knight stared at her, brown eyes shielded, and Yolande stared back at him, balling her hands so that the nails dug into her palms. ‘Sometimes, Jean,’ she muttered, ‘I think that I hate you.’ She had come to the end of her tether.

He capitulated. ‘Of course, my love, we’ll go to Kermaria.’

Yolande closed her eyes, unaware that the intensity of her relief made her face haggard. ‘Thank the Lord.’ She let her head rest on Jean’s familiar shoulder. ‘I pray this tangle can be unravelled soon. I’m tired of living in fear. Our children have a right to be safe.’ Moving out of her lover’s arms, she crossed to the shutter and fastened it with a snap. She glanced up at the rafters; she could hear movement upstairs. ‘Jean, when shall I tell them we’re going?’

He shrugged. ‘Whenever you like.’

Yolande smiled.

***

That evening, without consulting Izabel, Yolande decided to remove the diamond from its resting place in the cedar wood base of the Virgin.

Gwenn’s ordeal had been a poignant reminder of the vulnerability of their position; and until her family was safely housed at Kermaria, Yolande was taking no chances. The gem was all the security she had, and she wanted it safely in her personal keeping. The jewel had once belonged to de Roncier’s grandmother, Andaine, and he might know of it. He might strike again.

Waiting till her mother’s bedchamber was empty, Yolande crept in and twisted the wooden plinth from the statue. A leather pouch fell from the secret cavity. Opening the pouch, Yolande removed the gemstone and dropped it into the purse at her belt.

There was a danger that Izabel might decide to look at the diamond, but Yolande had thought of that. She had a substitute in the pocket of her bliaud. It was a sunstone, or sailor’s stone, so named because pieces of quartz like it were once used in navigation. Its shape roughly resembled the gem’s. It would not bear close inspection, for the sunstone was cloudy and chipped – it had none of the sharp brilliance of the valuable jewel. But if her mother were to make an inspection, she would most likely to do so at night when there was less chance of Raymond or Gwenn discovering her. Weighing the sunstone in her hands, Yolande smiled with satisfaction. Its weight matched that of the real gem. Carefully, she put the sunstone in the pouch and tightened the strings. As long as Izabel didn’t look too closely, she might not remark on the difference. The exchange would give Yolande a little time, and would save her from lengthy and tedious explanations. There was little to be gained in alarming her mother with her fears. Once they reached Kermaria, Yolande would replace the real gem.

Pushing the pouch into its neat hollow, Yolande re-fixed the base and returned the statue to the shelf in front of Izabel’s
prie-dieu
. Then she tiptoed from the chamber.

F
ive miles outside Vannes, Count François de Roncier’s favourite residence glowed in the moonlight like a monstrous egg nestling on a wooded hilltop. Once part of the de Wirce patrimony, the castle was known as the Château Ivoire to the French-speaking section of the population. The name derived from the fact that an earlier lord, Dagobert de Wirce, had whitewashed every wall of his castle, inside and out. Keep, bailey wall, curtain wall – everything down to the last pebble had been painted white. ‘My château,’ Dagobert had declared, ‘will shine bright as a beacon. It will be visible for miles, and all who look upon it will be reminded of my authority. No one will dare to challenge me.’

And now, though the ancient paint was cracked and peeling, and the wash was more grey than white, Château Ivoire still clung to its ancient name. A different lord was master now, but when the moon floated full and bright in a clear, cloudless sky, the old grey walls continued to blaze their defiant challenge into the encircling darkness.

The native Bretons had a less romantic name for the Count’s château – to them it was simply Huelgastel, or High Castle.

The castle solar was lit by four flaring cressets. It was close on midnight, but the Dowager Countess, Marie de Roncier, had not retired. She sat before the stone fireplace, in the loose black garment she considered suitable for her newly widowed status. A tapestry warmed her knees. The mother of François, Marie had seen the old Count, her adored husband Robert, buried less than a month ago.

Marie de Roncier was tired. She longed for the comfort and privacy of her bed, but she had a bone to pick with her son and was waiting up for him. Her vigil was a lonely one, for her daughter-in-law, Eleanor, and her granddaughter by her son’s first marriage, Arlette, had said their goodnights hours ago and she had only a tongue-tied young maid for company.

The Countess was making a poor pretence at working on the tapestry. Always a slender woman, grief had wasted away what little flesh she had, and the hands that rested on the tapestry were skeleton thin. Notwithstanding, she kept her back as straight as a spear. Her head was as high and haughty as a queen’s. Marie de Roncier gazed at the world past a splendid beak of a nose, and her jet-black eyes glared with a habitual defiance that the years had done nothing to diminish. Only the red circles faintly rimming her eyes betrayed human weakness. She had been weeping, but the set of eyes and head were fierce enough to keep sympathy at bay. Sagging folds of skin covered her cheekbones; they had a bruised look to them, which even the wavering cresset lights could not obscure. Bitter lines were firmly etched about a pale, thin mouth. Marie de Roncier had the air of a woman who had not laughed in a century.

Two iron firedogs held the burning logs in place in the great stone fireplace, preventing them from rolling onto the rush-covered floorboards. At the Countess’s side her maid, Lena, crouched on a stool. The girl was working on the tapestry despite the gloom. Being newly promoted from the laundry, she was in awe of her mistress. The tapestry, several yards long, was half worked. It depicted a hunting scene and bore the family coat of arms, of cinquefoils on argent in a circlet of black thorns. It had originally been destined for Marie de Roncier’s bedchamber, but now that her husband was gone, both bedchamber and tapestry must of course devolve to her son – and his Countess, Eleanor.

Marie sighed, something she invariably did when she thought about her current daughter-in-law. She did not believe for a moment that François’ useless second wife had gone to bed. ‘It’s more likely the woman’s wearing out her knees in the chapel praying that God might grant her a son,’ she muttered.

‘Countess?’

‘Nothing, girl.’ Marie answered in Breton for the benefit of her maid, who mangled French like the washerwoman she was. ‘I’m thinking aloud, and I’ll thank you to close your ears.’

‘Aye,
madame
.’ Diligently, Lena bent over her work, leaving Marie to muse in peace.

Eleanor had married François seven years ago, and in all that time there had been no sign of her quickening. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the woman was barren. The fault must lay at Eleanor’s door, not at her son’s, for had not François already got twelve year old Arlette out of his first wife, Joan? And later Joan had produced a boy child – a sickly infant who had not lived three days. Joan had not been barren. Would that Joan had lived, but she had caught an infection and had only out-lived her son by only a day. Joan and her babe had been buried together. And two years after Joan’s death, François had married Eleanor. After that there had been no more babies, not even girls.

A rustling in a corner brought a grimace to Marie’s thin lips. Mice again. She would have to remind young Arlette that she was doing the household no favours by over-feeding the cats. Wielding her needle like a dagger, Marie jabbed it into the wall-hanging. Then, holding her work at arm’s length the better to inspect it, she flung her section of the tapestry into the rushes. ‘It’s little more than a bird’s nest,’ she declared disgustedly. ‘My son will think I’ve gone senile on him. I used to set a fine stitch, Lena. I don’t know why I bother, I think I’ll let you finish it. You have a neat hand.’

‘It is very dark, my lady,’ Lena said, soothingly, ‘and the torches give an unsteady light. I could fetch a lantern, or more candles.’ She sprang to her feet with a litheness the older woman envied, and retrieved the dropped section of needlework. Grasses from the rush carpet clung to the fabric. Lena shook it, folded it, and set it neatly on a bench. This done, she looked to her mistress. ‘My lady?’

The embittered mouth eased when Marie saw the girl waiting meekly for her agreement. A tactful maid – that was rare. This Lena showed promise, she clearly had more sense than most her age. ‘Never mind, Lena,’ Marie relaxed enough to yawn. ‘My fingers are too stiff to sew any more. I’ve been waiting in vain. I’ll prepare myself for bed. The Count cannot be coming home tonight.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’

‘Pass me my stick and give me your arm. My legs have seized up with too much idling about.’ A distant door slammed, and a series of crashes and thuds floated up the stairwell. ‘Who the Devil disturbs the peace at this hour?’

Lena flushed. ‘It... I think it is your son, Countess. He...the Count must have returned.’

In confirmation of the maid’s words, François de Roncier erupted into the solar, spurs a-jangle and thick riding boots thumping across the wooden floorboards. Windblown, his jowls had a brazier’s glow to them.

Marie drew herself up and raised a disapproving brow. With her son she invariably spoke in French. ‘You’re wearing your sword in the solar, François.’

Mail gauntlets chinked like bags of money as the Count removed then and tossed them onto the table. They landed next to a wooden puzzle box Marie had asked Arlette to tidy away earlier. ‘Too busy feeding the cats,’ Marie muttered, clicking her tongue in irritation. It was plain her granddaughter needed a talking to.

Meek as a lamb, her son was unbuckling his sword belt. ‘Here, girl,’ he threw his belt at Lena, ‘drop this on the window seat, will you?’

The maid’s flush deepened, and Marie drew her own conclusions. She made no comment, for it was beneath her dignity to comment on her son’s philanderings with the lower orders. What a pity, she thought, reassessing her maid. The girl is just another common trollop. But she’s probably fertile, an unwelcome voice nagged inside her; she might be only a mindless peasant, but it is possible that she will be carrying your bastard grandchild in a couple of months. While delicate, high-bred Eleanor...

But this night, Marie had other matters on her mind. ‘Well, François? Have you got rid of them?’

‘They’ll be gone soon.’ François’ grin was that of a contented man. ‘Father Jerome created quite a storm.’

‘I feared he might,’ Marie acknowledged, adding a crease to her brow. ‘I mislike him, but there’s no doubting his genius with words.’

‘He’s dangerous.’ François shook his head, reflectively. ‘You should have heard him. He’s headier than any wine I’ve ever tasted. He had the townsfolk in the palm of his hand, itching to cleanse every alley in the place. And men who had lain with a whore not an hour before were fighting among themselves to be the first to serve his will.’

‘But did they frighten
them
?’ Marie was half afraid of what the answer might be. Izabel Herevi was her sister, and mad though she was... ‘It was
them
you were set on frightening.’

‘We had a stroke of luck. The girl was in the church.’

‘With Iz–’ Marie broke off, recollecting in time the presence of her maid. The girl’s French was virtually non-existent, but it was better to say no names out loud lest they were repeated to Eleanor or Arlette who had been kept in ignorance of their lost relations. ‘With the old woman?’

‘No, she was alone.’

Marie hissed on an indrawn breath. ‘And?’

François tramped to the fire and spread his hands before the blaze. ‘She led the mob straight to the house. It couldn’t have gone better.’

Marie clenched her stick. ‘They were not hurt?’

Her son’s russet brows came together. ‘Mother, we’ve been through all this. Who are they to threaten me? Would you have me play the woman’s role? I’ll not wait upon events.’

‘Robert never lifted a finger against her.’

‘No, and you know why that was, don’t you?’

Marie reeled back as though she’d been struck in the face. ‘François, how could you?’

‘I’m sorry,
ma mère
, but it’s the truth. Father never lifted a finger against Izabel Herevi because he loved her. She jilted him, but still he loved her.’ Callously, François rubbed salt into a wound that he knew had never healed in over thirty years. ‘Face it,
Maman
. Your Robert is dead, and I am Count now. I’m not a man to leave loose ends lying about. That land is mine, and I will be rid of them, whatever the cost.’

Marie sank onto a bench and rested her back against the table. ‘
Whatever
the cost?’

‘Aye. I never trusted St Clair for all that he was courting the Foucard woman. He’s a jumped-up knight with eyes on my rights. I’ll teach him to covet the possessions of his betters.’

‘But they’re family, François.’ Marie thought the years had turned her to rock, but her son’s ruthlessness made her shrink. ‘Izabel’s your aunt!’