The Stone Rose (70 page)

He tethered Firebrand to a bay tree in his aunt’s overgrown herb garden. The door was ajar. He rapped his knuckles on it, and the noise made him flinch. His nerves were shredded that morning, and he only had himself to blame. He had run into old drinking companions the evening before and had been drawn into lengthy reminiscences around the forge with his friends and his stepfather. He and Ivon were fully reconciled, and during the course of the evening, much ale had been drunk, and much wine. ‘It’s the combination that’s the killer,’ Alan muttered to himself, angry at his own stupidity.

There was no response from the farmhouse. Agnes was growing deaf. Wincing, Alan knocked once more, and raised his voice, ‘Agnes? Gwenn?’ His throat was as gritty as a mason’s file.

‘In here, Alan. Come straight in.’

Agnes was climbing painstakingly down the stairs from the loft. Alan helped her down the last few rungs. ‘I thought you moved your bed downstairs because you find the stairs a trial.’

Agnes smiled. ‘I do find them a trial.’

Alan led his aunt to the trestle and pulled out a bench for her. ‘You should ask Gwenn if you need something down from the loft. Where is she?’

‘Gone to the river. Didn’t you spot her from the road?’

‘No.’ Alan rubbed sore eyes. ‘I can hardly see out this morning.’

‘Good night, was it, nephew?’

Alan groaned, sank onto the bench, and closed his eyes.

‘Alan, I think you should go and see if Gwenn is safe.’

Weary grey eyes peered past hooded lids. ‘Why shouldn’t Gwenn be safe? She’s only gone to the river.’

‘No, Alan. I think you should go. Something has happened. It’s connected with that blessed statue. She rushed in here talking about messengers from Normandy.’

Her nephew’s head shot up. ‘Messengers from Normandy? Who?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

Alan caught her wrist. ‘Think, Aunt, exactly what did she say?’

‘A White Canon told her a horseman rode in from Dieppe, someone she knew in Vannes. He has been asking questions. Gwenn took the figurine to the river and... Alan?’

The door cracked against its frame, and seeing that she was speaking to an empty room, Agnes shook her head and smiled.

Charging into the yard, Alan remembered his sword. In his befuddled state that morning, he had jammed it under his pack at the back of the saddle. Cursing the few seconds’ delay, he dragged it out, buckled it into place, and flung himself on Firebrand. The farmhouse was surrounded with a split-rail fence to keep the White Canons’ sheep from the cottage garden, and though it was down in places, his route was barred by a gate. Alan dug in his spurs. The courser cleared the gate with ease, and then they were galloping over Swaledale’s springy turf, noses pointed to the river.

The greensward sloped gently away from them. At the bottom, in front of the trees, two figures were struggling. A hulking great warhorse with its reins slack about its head placidly cropped the grass. It was the horse that betrayed to Alan the identity of the mysterious visitor from Normandy. The animal was past its best, a lanky grey, long in the bone, and he recognised it. Otto Malait favoured that horse.

Alan spurred Firebrand and was carried down the hill faster than the wind. Of all people, he wished it were not Otto Malait.

He was almost there, and not a heartbeat too soon, for the Viking’s fingers were a vice round Gwenn’s throat. Her face was puce. She must have knocked Malait’s helmet off, for it lay on the grass, next to the Stone Rose which had been separated from its stand. The wooden shards lay in the grass at Gwenn’s feet. The drawstring pouch was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where is it, girl?’ Otto shook her, easing his grip on her throat to allow her to speak. She hung like a child’s rag doll from his giant’s hands, and let out a groan. Otto renewed his grip, and weakly she tried to free herself.

Alan wanted to cry out, to shriek at Malait to release her, but he urged Firebrand on and bit on his tongue. Malait had his back to him and did not appear to have heard him. The Norseman was wearing a mail tunic, but his arms were unprotected. Alan had the element of surprise on his side, and he must make the most of it, for if he did not, Malait would not scruple at holding Gwenn as a hostage against him.

Thanking God that all his wits did not appear to have been drowned in last night’s ale, Alan gripped his sword and bent low over his saddle. If he could charge past the Norseman and make a pass as he did so... It was a coward’s strike. It was not the sort of blow that an honourable man would make, but what choice did he have?

He was almost on them, and with a sick sense of dread he saw Gwenn’s hands go slack and her arms swing loose at her sides. Gwenn had lost consciousness. Legs hugging Firebrand’s barrel chest, Alan pointed his sword. A dozen yards to go... nine... six... three...

At the last moment, Otto started, and swung round. The pale eyes bulged. He dropped Gwenn and leaped sideways, but he was not fleet enough and Alan’s sword caught him a glancing blow on his unmailed arm. Wheeling Firebrand round, Alan did not pause to let him recover, but charged again. Otto snatched out his sword and backed to where Gwenn lay senseless on the grass.

Terror tugged Alan’s entrails. ‘No! Leave her!’

Otto’s grin was lost in his beard. ‘Come off your high horse and fight me on equal terms, le Bret.’ Standing over the unconscious girl, Otto delivered a bruising kick to her buttocks. She made a choking sound in her throat. ‘Oh, listen, le Bret,’ he declared in tones of amazement, ‘she’s breathing. But not, I think, for much longer.’ He bent over her.

‘You bastard!’ Alan swung his leg over Firebrand’s neck so as to avoid making his opponent a present of his back, and jumped. His insides were liquid with fear for Gwenn. ‘I’m down! Let her alone. Has she told you where it is?’

Otto straightened. The look on his face told Alan she had not.

‘If you kill her, you’ll never find it,’ Alan warned him, urgently.

‘She’s not told you?’

‘Me?’ Alan could not keep the bitterness from his tone. ‘When I’ve already tried to steal it? Do you really think she’d trust a mercenary?’

The two men circled each other. ‘Never thought I’d see you lose colour over a wench, le Bret,’ Otto said. ‘Or is it the thought of losing her riches?’

On the grass, Gwenn coughed, and her limbs made a tentative movement. She would have to recover unaided, for Alan’s hands were fully occupied with the Norseman. Praying that Malait’s mount would not trample her, Alan tried to clear his wine-fuddled mind. Firebrand could be relied on never to step on a human body; an intelligent horse would never harm anyone without good reason. But Malait’s horse? Alan could not say what it would do.

Alan tried to focus his blurred thoughts. Gwenn must have removed the gem from the statue before Malait had found her. If Alan could distract him while she came to her senses, she might be able to mount Firebrand and ride to the White Canons for help.

Otto’s sword sparked in the sun. Alan warded it off. The blow jarred his arm and set off ringing noises in his head, but his fighting reflexes took over and his blood surged through his veins. Despite the ringing noises, he was still in command of himself. He could fight.

Otto skipped back and thrust almost at once. Again, Alan parried the blow, but this thrust when he met it sent him reeling. The Norseman’s greater bulk gave tremendous force to his blows.

Alan’s sword flashed, Otto bounced backwards, grinning, and the stroke went wide. Otto lunged, Alan’s wine-soused feet were slow to respond, and Viking steel streaked silver fire across his chest.

‘Shit!’ There was a diagonal slash across Alan’s tunic. His skin stung, but the wound was not serious. An inch closer, however... If he got out of this in one piece, he’d never drink again.

Warily, he edged round, trying to keep Gwenn at his back and Otto before him. He heard her moan, and closed his ears to her distress. He must keep his mind on his opponent.

‘What’s amiss, le Bret, afraid I’ll disembowel your wench?’ Otto made a half-hearted pass which Alan deflected with ease. The Norseman struck again with more determination. Steel crashed, and a moment later Alan’s sword flew out and nicked a lock from the Norseman’s straggling beard.

Dancing backwards, the pale eyes fired. ‘Waking up at last? Good. You were fighting like a woman.’ Otto began his attack in earnest, and Alan had no thought for anything but his own survival.

Consciousness came back to Gwenn in uneasy stages. Her first thought was that the Viking had screwed her head from her shoulders. Her next was that her neck must be black with bruises, for the air burned hot as molten lead as it flowed down her crushed throat. Her starved lungs ached; and though she was greedy for air, pain dictated that she must ration it and breathe slowly. She was lying on dew-damp grass. As her battered senses rallied, her ears sharpened. Someone was panting. There was a crash, a grunt. More hard breathing. A groan.

She lifted leaden eyelids and pushed herself to her elbows. Dizzyingly, the meadow rolled and dipped, a great green sea of grass. A wave of nausea rushed to meet her. Pushing it aside, she saw two men. The blond one made her heart sink, but on seeing the dark, slighter form, it bounded in her breast. Alan! Her voice was disconnected, which was a blessing, she might have distracted him, and she could see he was fighting for his life. She tried to sit up. The meadow heaved and rocked. She didn’t want to watch, but her eyes were drawn as though by a string to the deadly duel. They had sprung apart for a few moments to draw breath.

Alan looked like death. His face had a bruised, exhausted look to it, his eyes were strained, his skin drawn tight across his cheekbones. He looked... ill. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, impatiently, he lifted his arm and sleeved it away. Where was Alan’s gambeson? He was not dressed for combat, being clad in a simple blue tunic she had not seen before.

The Viking, though breathing hard, was flushed with the thrill of the fight. His eyes looked ready to pop from their sockets. His chest was protected with a sleeveless mail tunic. He was ready for battle and relishing every moment. Alan was neither ready, nor relishing it.

While she steadied her rocking senses, Gwenn wondered what Alan was fighting for. For her? Or was he risking himself for the diamond? Alan’s woollen tunic had a slash across it – sight of the red tinge on the cut edges made her blood run cold. Either way, it made no difference, she wanted him to live. ‘God protect him,’ she murmured, climbing shakily to her knees. With no conscious stratagem in mind, she hauled herself upright and staggered towards the horses.

‘Yes, Gwenn!’ Alan wasted precious time to shout at her. ‘Ride! Ride for the abbey!’

Seeing his opponent momentarily diverted, Otto closed in, slashing wildly. The two men fell together. Swords cut and hacked. One of them cried out. Gwenn’s breath froze, but it was the Viking who broke away, blood streaking from under his arm. She breathed again.

‘The horses, Gwenn! Move!’

Alan’s shriek of desperation set her legs moving like a puppet’s. She reached the Norseman’s bony stallion first. Grazing, with his head down, the horse had lost the power to terrify. Taking the reins, she looked up at the high warrior’s saddle. The Viking’s dreadful axe hung on a thong from the pommel. Gwenn hesitated. Alan had his back to her. He was keeping the Viking from reaching her, hair tumbled about his head and dark with sweat. She set her foot in the stirrup. She took it out again. She couldn’t go. It wasn’t possible.

‘Go!’

He wasn’t looking at her, but she shook her head. It was no good. She couldn’t leave him facing that brute.

‘For God’s sake, Gwenn! I can’t hold him much longer.’

And then the worst happened. While sending her an anguished look, Alan slipped on the meadow grass and went down at her feet. His skull hit the ground with a sickening thud. After a moment when time seemed to stand still, he opened his eyes, and looked an unmistakable apology at her. Gwenn’s heart turned over. Blindly she moved towards him. His lips framed one word. ‘Gwenn.’ And then his eyes closed and his head lolled to one side.

The Viking hugged his wounded arm close to his chest, blood dripped down his sleeve. Glancing disinterestedly at Gwenn, he kicked Alan’s sword well out of his reach. He stooped over Alan and his sword lifted...

Gwenn retreated, backing up against the stallion. Her breath was coming in short, jerky gasps. Sliding her fingers along the saddle horn, she grabbed the handle of the barbaric axe and wrenched it towards her. The thong snapped. She had to act quickly. She needed two hands to lift the axe, but lift it she did, raising it above her head. A strand of fine blond hair waved in the breeze as the Viking bowed over Alan, and she wished she had not noticed it. It made the monster human, made it impossible for her to kill him. But she must kill him, she must, and swiftly. The axe-head glinted in the sunlight. Gwenn quivered to her core. She had never killed a man, she couldn’t kill a man, but she had to kill this one, because if she didn’t he would butcher Alan, and then he would turn on her, though that last scarcely mattered.

The Norseman’s neck was white and glistening with sweat. She raised the axe. She sent it chopping down, but with a disgusted moan she twisted it at the last second, so the flat of the blade and not the edge cracked against his skull. He grunted softly and dropped like a stone, right over Alan.

The axe fell to the grass. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to kill him, but God grant she had knocked him into the next century. She had bought a little time.

Her knees softened. She fell to the ground, heaved the Viking off Alan, and shook Alan. ‘Alan?’ Alan’s head rolled. Keeping it steady, she gripped his arm. ‘Alan? Wake up!’ His cheeks were grey, and his lips pale. ‘Alan.’ Not a movement. She shook him less gently. ‘Alan! Oh, God, not Alan too. Please, God, not Alan.’

She drew his head onto her knees. Blood. Her pulse pounded. His blood was everywhere. Tenderly parting the sweat-streaked hair, she found its source, a great gash in his skull. He had cracked his head on a stone when he fell. Glancing at the rich turf, she found the culprit at once. The Stone Rose smiled innocently up at her from the spot where a moment ago Alan’s head had lain. The pink granite bore telltale traces of blood.