The Stone Rose Page 20

  ‘P...promotion, sir?’ Ned was temporarily tongue-tied, and he knew those wretched crimson flags were flying in his cheeks. He heard a throaty giggle.

  St Clair tossed him a smile. ‘I regret Warr leaving us, but if you will accept the position of sergeant, that will ameloriate the loss. Who knows, one day you might step into his boots.’

  Ned was so astounded, that he forgot his discomfiture.

  ‘And, Fletcher?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I feel confident that you will not abuse this new position.’

  Ned was trying to come to terms with his astonishing change of fortune. This was the answer to his prayers. ‘N...no, sir,’ he blurted, stammering like a dolt.

  Sir Jean’s lean face warmed. ‘You show promise, my lad. You’re hard-working, diligent, I trust you–’ an audible chuckle from the fireside brought the jutting brows down, ‘-in almost every respect. Besides, I have the feeling you’ve been under-employed of late. You’ve had a restive look about you. What say you?’

  Ned pulled his scattered wits together. ‘I’d be honoured, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’ St Clair jabbed a finger at the parchment. ‘Put your mark there. Warr and Raymond will witness it.’

  Scarcely able credit this was truly happening, Ned picked up the goose quill. Gwenn drifted to her father’s elbow and every nerve in Ned’s body reacted to her nearness. It was the most exquisite agony. Was love always so painful? he wondered miserably.

  Bright, brown eyes smiled boldly at Ned. ‘Well done, Ned,’ she said.

  The knight glowered at Gwenn. ‘Back to the women, daughter,’ he said, tight-lipped, and he plucked his riding switch from the trestle. ‘And by St Patern, what do you think you are about, addressing him,’ he sounded as though he was talking about the dirt beneath his feet, ‘as Ned?’

  Gwenn lowered her gaze, but Ned was not deceived by this apparent humility. Her pretty mouth was sullen. If St Clair noticed that look – and how could he fail to? – his wrath would be fearful. Would she never learn? St Clair doted on her, as he did all his children, but such looks never failed to wake a demon in him. The knight sucked in a breath.

  ‘Are you listening to me, girl?’

  ‘Aye, Papa.’

  Sir Jean put his crop under Gwenn’s chin to force it up. Ned winced. ‘Have the courtesy to look at me when you’re talking to me, daughter. And wipe that defiant smile from your lips.’

  ‘Aye, Pa...sir. My apologies, sir.’

  ‘His name,’ Sir Jean jerked his head at Ned, ‘is Fletcher to you, or Sergeant. Do you hear?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Fletcher,’ Sir Jean repeated.

  ‘I’m not deaf.’

  The knight’s moustache bristled.

  Quickly, Gwenn gave a bob of a curtsy. ‘I’m sorry, Papa, but knowing N–’ swiftly she corrected herself, ‘Fletcher so well, I forgot.’

  ‘He’s a hired man,’ Sir Jean said, in clipped tones.

  Grimly, Ned stared at the oak table and wished himself back in England.

  ‘A free man.’ Gwenn said this lightly, but with an edge that was not lost on her father.

  ‘He hires himself out for pay,’ her father said scathingly as though that were the most damning condemnation one man could level at another. And in his eyes, perhaps it was.

  ‘Raymond calls him Ned.’

  ‘Over-familiar of him, I’d say, but a different case entirely. And don’t ask me why, because you know very well. Raymond’s a man.’

  Raymond smirked.

  St Clair flexed his riding switch. ‘I’d use this on you, mademoiselle, if I thought it would do any good, but no doubt your hide is as tough as a donkey’s.’ And to Ned’s inexpressible relief he smiled and cast his whip onto the board. ‘Pick up that spindle, girl.’

  Meekly, Gwenn turned on her heel, but her eyes flashed.

  ‘If I hear you call him Ned again, it will mean a birching.’ Something about his daughter’s posture gave Sir Jean pause. He stared keenly at her slight back for a moment or two, stroked his moustache into place, before turning his attention back to the young Englishman.

  ‘Now, Sergeant Fletcher.’ His master smiled with charming formality. ‘About your remuneration...’

  ***

  Three weeks later, a leggy stranger whose limbs looked as though they had been flung together, swaggered across the drawbridge of François de Roncier’s main residence, Huelgastel. Bow and quiver were slung over one bony shoulder, and his left forearm was bound with the leather guard of an archer.

  Though the castle’s drawbridge was lowered, the gatehouse was shut. The spy-hole in the central door was closed. The man, who was in his late thirties, rattled the door, and when that failed to gain any response, pounded on it with his fist. ‘Hey! Wake up sluggards! I’ve information for Captain Malait.’

  Nicholas Warr, archer, had been furious when Jean St Clair had criticised him for slackness. The knight had complained when Warr had asked for a couple of men to spare some time to make more targets. St Clair had had the cheek to infer that it was Warr’s fault they were damaged, when everyone at Kermaria knew the man’s penny-pinching, miserly ways were to blame. The targets had not been replaced since St Clair’s father’s time, and it was only thanks to Warr’s good management that they had given as much service as they had. Not content with that, St Clair had criticised the condition of the spare bows and arrows, not to mention Warr’s method of training the villagers...

  Nicholas Warr never stayed anywhere his talents were not appreciated. He had wasted no time in informing Jean St Clair that he had a woman waiting for him and that he was to be married. This had been no lie, but he had not seen the woman for some months, and when the archer had reached his lady-love, he had found himself turned down for a cooper. A cooper! The faithless woman had said she wanted someone who paid her more attention. She wanted someone who wasn’t about to go and get himself killed. Storming off, Warr had drunk his pay away, and then, too proud to go back to St Clair and admit that his woman had deserted him, and that he had been in the wrong, he had decided to head for Huelgastel. Warr was bent on refilling his purse. He had done Otto Malait a good turn once. He hoped the Viking would not have forgotten it, for Malait was to help him gain admittance.

  The archer was betting that the Count, St Clair’s old adversary, would be anxious to learn that Waldin St Clair was coming home to roost. Warr could also tell him about St Clair’s forthcoming marriage. He had been quick to see the possibilities. Here was an easy way to feather his nest, for the Count would doubtless pay handsomely for the information. Warr had intended coming here three week ago direct from Kermaria, but after being jilted the prospect of a few weeks’ indulgence had been more temptation than he could stand.

  But now, with his wings clipped by a depressingly light purse, Nicholas Warr wished he had come earlier. His idiotic fling was over and he felt desperate. Perhaps they would ignore him. Or perhaps they would listen and then throw him out. Perhaps he should have stayed put at Kermaria. Admittedly the money was poor, but one could always fill one’s belly there.

  The peep-hole squeaked open and a blue, bloodshot eye with a mean gleam peered out. ‘State your name, and business,’ the owner of the eye said.

  ‘Nicholas Warr, archer.’

  ‘We’ve a full complement of archers.’ The peep-hole slid back with a click, and Warr was left contemplating a blank oak door.

  ‘Jesus wept.’ Warr reapplied his fist to the door.

  The peep-hole slid open. The bloodshot eye came back into view. ‘You deaf?’ The gatekeeper’s snarl was muffled by thick oak. ‘Or merely brainless? Go and plague some other soul.’

  Nicholas had to catch the guard’s attention fast, before that loophole was sealed. He took his purse from his belt and shook what he had left of his pay. Being all but empty after three weeks’ riotous living, the purse didn’t make a very convincing noise. Not to be daunted, Warr ploughed on, ‘I fought with Otto Malait in sevent
y-three.’

  ‘They all say that.’ The eye rolled disparagingly at Warr’s slender purse.

  Losing heart, he tried to make his last coins chink more loudly. ‘It would be worth your while.’

  ‘And who’ll pay me? You?’ The porter sneered. ‘That wallet sounds more like a baby’s rattle than anything else. What will you pay me with, seashells?’

  ‘It would be worth your while,’ Warr repeated, tucking his purse back into his belt and speaking fast while the window yet gaped. ‘It’s true I haven’t got much, but you will be rewarded. I must speak to Captain Malait. I’ve valuable information to pass on to the Count.’ The eye blinked. Warr hoped its owner was listening. ‘It would be worth your–’

  ‘It would mean a flogging if you’re lying.’

  In despair, the archer resorted to the truth. ‘Do I look as though I’m lying? Christ on the Cross, you noticed for yourself that my purse is as hungry for coin as I am for food. I need money. Is it likely that I’d be wasting my time and yours if I didn’t think that what I had to say was worth something? Let me in. Please.’

  The peep-hole snapped shut. Warr’s nostrils dilated. There was a hollow thud, a grating of bolts which set his teeth on edge. As he heard the heavy iron bars being slowly drawn back in their sockets, he felt the first drops of rain.

  Warr spread his hands and blinked gratefully up at a dull sky. ‘My thanks,’ he said. It was not that he believed in the Almighty, but he felt a need to express his gratitude. And just in case, he added, ‘I owe you one.’

  ***

  Slumped in a kingly high-backed chair with padded seat and back-rest, de Roncier heard Captain Malait and the archer out with an ever-darkening brow.

  ‘So you see, mon seigneur,’ Warr summed up, ‘Jean St Clair is planning to marry Yolande Herevi.’

  ‘And you say she’s carrying?’ the Count demanded.

  ‘So her maid, Klara, maintained.’

  François rubbed the bridge of his nose, and as his fury rose, so did his high colour.

  Having shot his bolt, Nicholas Warr felt sweat break out on his brow. He chewed the inside of his mouth and hoped his bringing this news would not misfire on him; de Roncier looked to be taking it extremely ill. Was the Count a man to punish the bearer of bad tidings? Warr wished he had thought of that earlier instead of waiting until he was so hard-pressed.

  ‘I’m sorry, mon seigneur, if this news distresses you,’ Warr said, as coolly as he could, ‘but I thought it in your best interests that you should know, so that you could make plans. I thought–’

  De Roncier levelled callous hazel eyes at him and Warr’s blood went cold. ‘You thought you saw your way to making a profit.’

  ‘I...I assure you, mon seigneur...’

  The Count stood up. ‘See he’s paid, Malait, and boot him out.’

  ‘Come on, Warr.’

  Warr hung back. ‘Mon seigneur?’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I’d be grateful for a position,’ the archer blurted, stammering to a halt when he saw a cunning, feral gleam enter the Frenchman’s eyes.

  ‘I’m not convinced I would benefit by employing a loose-tongued serf,’ de Roncier murmured.

  Warr was a free man, but he let that one glide past him. ‘L...loose-tongued?’

  ‘You betray your former master very easily.’

  Only a lie would serve Warr now. ‘May I burn in sulphur, but St Clair never paid. Do I give a man my loyalty, if he never shells out?’

  François hesitated. He could well believe that St Clair hadn’t settled up. What man did if he could get away with it? Why, he himself often delayed doling out for as long as he could – it was only prudent. And St Clair’s estate could not yield much. He subjected the archer to a thorough scrutiny. ‘And if I employ you – and pay you, naturally...’

  ‘You’d not regret it. I’m one of the best archers in the Duchy.’

  ‘Do we need another archer, Captain?’

  Otto exchanged a brief look with Warr. He had not forgotten the skirmish when Warr had saved his life. A brace of Englishmen had had him at a disadvantage, when suddenly blue and white feathers had sprouted from one assailant’s chest. Warr’s quiver was full of arrows fletched like that. ‘We can always use a good man,’ he said. He did not like to be beholden to anyone, and this, an easy thing, would set the tally straight.

  ‘Very well. See he’s tested at the butts. If he hits the spot, add his name to the roll.’

  ‘Aye, mon seigneur.’

  ***

  Returning from the butts with rain-dampened clothes, Otto Malait and Nicholas Warr strode into a vast hall which was abuzz with talk. The fire gushed forth an acrid blue smoke which caught in the back of the throat and lay across the room like a fenland fog. Supper was on the trestles, and the rich smell of roast boar filled their nostrils. Stools creaked. Goblets clattered. Knives flashed over piled trenchers. Hounds snarled and fought over scraps in the marsh – the soiled rushes under the tables. Cats with thievery in mind streaked between dogs’ legs.

  ‘Come, Warr, don’t look so down at mouth.’ Otto headed for a vacant space on the soldiers’ table near the door. ‘I’ll enrol you, though I’ve seen you do better.’

  ‘My thanks, Captain Malait. I’m grateful,’ Warr said, eyeing what was left of the pig with apparent misgivings.

  The men who had got to the roast ahead of them had taken the best cuts, and all that was left was a massacre of gristle and bone to which scarcely a strand of flesh clung. The meat had been charred almost to a cinder, so it must at one time have been hot, but it was now cold, congealed, and frankly unappetising.

  ‘You don’t look it,’ Otto said.

  ‘No, I am grateful,’ Warr assured him, and sat down.

  ‘What was it like at Kermaria?’ Otto asked, and hewing a gobbet from the burnt offering, thrust what was left at the archer. The hands that took the platter from him were long. Nicholas Warr had surprisingly thin bones for a military man. Broad-shouldered though, he got that from his archery, but otherwise too lanky for Otto’s taste. Now Warr had enlisted with de Roncier, he would be given the chance to prove his loyalty by telling them all he could.

  The archer cut what he could from the ill-fated boar and resigned himself to a night’s indigestion. ‘It was warm at Kermaria,’ he said, dryly.

  Otto’s wits were never at their sharpest when he was intent on bagging a wine jar. He frowned. ‘Warm? That damp, bog of a place?’

  ‘You misunderstand, Captain. It was the food I was referring to.’ Warr looked round the ring of gobbling, hard-faced men-at-arms, ‘and the people.’

  Otto let his eyes wash coldly over the archer. ‘The people? You’ve gone soft, Warr, since I knew you. Wasn’t it you who once boasted that you never allowed affection to come into your working relationships?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  Otto laughed, and choked as some pork went down the wrong way. ‘Bones of St Olaf! You’re showing your years.’

  ‘We’re all showing our years, Malait,’ Warr said soberly.

  ‘There was someone else who lived by your old precepts, Warr, Alan le Bret.’

  ‘Le Bret?’ The archer nodded. ‘I knew him, briefly. He left St Clair. Must have been two years back.’

  ‘That fits. At least he showed sense. Thank God you can rely on some folk. Your change of heart shook my faith in human nature. Warmth, indeed,’ Otto snorted. ‘Tell me, what happened to the stripling with an unruly conscience – Ned...Fletcher, I think it was. Is he at Kermaria?’ Now there was a handsome lad. Otto had never met a better-looking boy than Ned Fletcher. Though he had found a friend at Huelgastel and was fond of him, this new lad could not touch Ned Fletcher on looks. A sturdy lad, with rosy cheeks. Otto sighed, he had always regretted not being able to get closer to young Fletcher.

  ‘Ned Fletcher’s still there.’

  Mouth full, stained teeth grinding his meat like a mill, Otto grunted with satisfaction. ‘Aye. That fits too.’


  ***

  ‘Maman?’ Groping his way through the half-light on the landing outside the Dowager Countess’s bedchamber, François pushed the heavy door-curtain aside with a shove that set the curtain rings rattling.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Marie de Roncier’s voice came querulously from the bed. She had slipped on the worn flags in the bailey a month ago and damaged her hip, and had been carried up to the round tower room she’d converted to her private use. She was a truculent patient, and she had gone unwillingly, fighting every step of the way and invoking curses on anyone within range. She did not know it, but she was not likely to leave her chamber on her own feet again.

  ‘It’s me, Maman.’ François’ foot caught on something on the floor. A leather mug. ‘God’s Blood! Why doesn’t that maid of yours light more torches? It’s blacker than Hades in here.’ He bent for the mug, setting it on the stone ledge which ran partway round the wall.

  ‘Hades is the right word for it,’ came his mother’s bitter response.

  ‘Maman, don’t be like that.’ His mother’s tireless complaining was one of the reasons François had been avoiding her company of late. He knew it was hard for her, a vigorous woman, to be so cooped up, but if she sweetened her tongue, he might beat a path to her chamber more frequently.

  ‘You should come to see me more often,’ she said, unaware that her plaintive echoing of her son’s guilty conscience merely served to alienate him further. He would not be visiting her now if it were not for the tidings from Kermaria. ‘My hip aches. I’m bored. No one comes to talk to me.’

  ‘You’ve got Lena,’ François pointed out. His mother recited complaints as lovingly as a priest mouthed the Creed.

  ‘Lena! That girl’s got a skull made of wood. How would you like to be laid up in bed with only a foolish chit of a girl for company?’

  A grin flickered across François’ dissolute mouth. It was quickly repressed, but not before his needle-eyed mother had spotted it. A reluctant light gleamed in her black eyes.

  ‘Ever the ladies’ man, eh? I should have thought getting that whey-faced Countess of yours with child was enough to keep you fully employed.’