The Stone Rose Page 27

  Conan smirked, not only was his luck in that morning, but for once it was paying him to be honest. His handing back of that purse, though it had gone very much against the grain, had been a masterstroke, and he would yet see a profit from it. He had done a good day’s work without even trying.

  Tristan put the broached bottle back on a tray with two goblets.

  ‘Ale for me, if you please,’ Ned said. ‘Wine’s too rich at this time of the day.’ He wanted a clear head when he met the wet nurse.

  ‘I’ve a strong stomach,’ Raymond declared.

  ‘Mmm.’ Ned was not going to dispute the obvious.

  Grasping firm hold of the bottle, Raymond took refuge in mockery. ‘Ale,’ he sneered. ‘You’re only a beginner, aren’t you, Sergeant Fletcher?’

  Suppressing a resigned sigh, Ned reached for his watery ale. He hoped the wench arrived before the level in that bottle sank much lower.

  ***

  Outside his hunting lodge, Duke Geoffrey was examining the rough wolf pelt his huntsman had brought him. ‘A princely beast, eh, Gilbert?’ he said, running his hands over the soft fur.

  ‘Aye, Your Grace. Quite remarkable. I’ve not skinned a larger one, and he led us a merry dance.’

  The Duke’s eyes lit up. ‘He did that. It was fine sport. Three days he eluded us, and–’ The Duke broke off, head cocked to one side. A horseman was approaching. ‘Who’s that?’ he demanded, ready to dive into his lodge. ‘I’m not expecting anyone, and I don’t want to be run to earth for a few days yet.’

  The huntsman screwed up his eyes. ‘The horse is yours, Your Grace. Captain le Bret is returning.’

  ‘Already? It must have been a very brief reunion.’ The Duke emerged from the shadows, and directed a jibe at his captain. ‘Don’t tell me, le Bret, you lost your way and couldn’t find the monastery.’ Alan was the best scout Duke Geoffrey had and they both knew it.

  Dismounting, Alan wound his reins round a nearby shrub. ‘My brother wasn’t there, Your Grace.’

  ‘I’ve heard it’s a harsh regime.’ The Duke hesitated. ‘He’s not...’

  ‘Dead?’ Alan smiled. ‘No, William’s not dead. Though I daresay he would be if he’d had to stay there much longer. I can see why Pierre Abelard took against the place all those years ago. No, my brother’s very much alive. Apparently the monks have unearthed a rare talent in him. William’s become an artist. He’s become renowned for his wall-paintings, and it seems his talent must be spread around. Another house has borrowed him – he’s repainting their chapel.’

  ‘So you missed him?’

  Alan pulled a rueful face. ‘Aye. And by only a week. But it’s of no moment. I’d not seen him in years.’

  ‘Pity though. Do you know where he went?’

  ‘They sent him to an obscure cell tucked away in the forest west of Vannes. It’s dedicated to St Félix.’

  ‘You could visit your brother later, in a month or two. I can’t spare you just yet,’ Duke Geoffrey said. Losing interest in his captain’s affairs, he looked proudly at the animal skin spread out on the ground.

  Taking the hint, Alan followed his Duke’s gaze. ‘You’ve had the head removed,’ he remarked.

  ‘Aye. I’m having that on the beam, remember? But I don’t need another pelt. Do you want it, le Bret?’

  ‘I’d be honoured, Your Grace.’

  The Duke waved a generous hand. ‘I’ll have it tanned and stretched for you then, to compensate for your missing your brother.’

  Alan bowed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mid-April 1186.

  Johanna the wet nurse was a stranger to modesty, like most nursing mothers. She saw no reason to blush when she unlaced her gown, and she often fed baby Philippe in the bustle of the hall. Johanna liked feeding him there, for two reasons.

  The first was that her brother, Conan, expected her to keep him informed of events at Kermaria, and as the hall was the centre of activity, it was the ideal place for her to sit and sift the wheat from the chaff. All Johanna had to do was find a seat, latch St Clair’s heir onto her breast, and keep her eyes peeled and her ears open. She could talk if she wanted to, but generally she found this not worth the candle, for the people most likely to bother with the wet nurse were the other women. And they, Johanna thought scornfully, never knew anything. So most days, she would sit quietly in the hall, stroking Philippe’s head, and pretending to look down at him in a loving way. She hoped she looked as pretty as Our Lady did on the mural in the chapel. Jean paid Johanna well for the pains she took with his son, and she did take pains. Eventually she did not even have to pretend to look lovingly at Philippe – she came to love him in truth, and her look betrayed her.

  Philippe St Clair was almost eight months old. He had taken to his nurse, and had lost his wizened, premature face. The child Johanna fed now could almost be weaned were it not the fashion to keep children on the breast for as long as possible. His cheeks had filled out and were as rosy as apples. He was plump and always smiling. He had strong, sturdy fists which he waved in the air. Johanna did not like to think that soon he would no longer need her, and not just because she was being paid twice. Sir Jean paid her. Her brother paid her. She’d never known work could be so easy, so enjoyable. She dreaded its ending.

  The second reason Johanna liked sitting in the hall was connected with her desire to look pretty. Johanna had no sooner spied Ned Fletcher in Duke’s Tavern, than she wanted him – him and no other. She was no simpering virgin to be taken in by a handsome face, as the fact that she was able to give suck to the knight’s child proved. But that day when her brother had wrenched a comb through her hair and shoved her all unwilling into Duke’s Tavern had changed her life. Conan had warned her to talk pretty, because they’d not take a slattern. Having seen Ned Fletcher, Johanna had obeyed him, and she had been taken to Kermaria.

  Up until that fateful August morning, Johanna had lived from hand to mouth, drifting aimlessly, content to grab as much as she could for herself. However, once she had set eyes on Ned Fletcher that changed. Suddenly, she had a mission in life, and she was willing to try anything to get him, including sitting in St Clair’s hall for hours longer than was necessary in the hope of seeing him. Ned Fletcher had been a sergeant when he had brought her here, but the very next day Johanna had witnessed his promotion to captain, apparently on the recommendation of Jean St Clair’s brother, Sir Waldin. A squat red-headed man called Denis had been made sergeant in his place.

  Ned was unlike any man Johanna had ever met. He did not seem to realise how those golden looks of his turned ladies’ heads, or if he did, he failed to make the most of it, a fact she found extraordinary. Life was tough. Nothing came easily, and Johanna’s view was that you must make the most of the meanest of God’s blessings. God had gifted her with some charms. She was plump and generally men admired her full figure. Johanna would reckon herself simple-minded and not deserving of God’s favour, if she did not put her charms to use.

  She tried baring her generous breasts in front of Ned, even if baby Philippe had already sucked himself into a stupor. But though the other men gawped at her, the Saxon never did. And she spent time considering how best to sit in order that her full bosom would be better displayed before him. His subordinates ogled her, their gazes fastened as greedily as a hungry babe’s on her breasts every time she sat by the fire, but Ned Fletcher might as well have been walking about blindfold for all the notice he took. Why didn’t he look her way?

  It took Johanna a day or two to work out that his interest was fixed elsewhere, but this did not daunt her. Gwenn Herevi – for the girl was illegitimate and as such had no right to her father’s name – surely posed no threat? She had a skinny, childish body. What man could possibly see Johanna and still want Gwenn Herevi? Confident that her moment would come, Johanna bided her time. But the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and Ned Fletcher had yet to do more than nod at her.

  One day when baby Philippe got the gripe, Johan
na came to the reluctant decision that she would have to feed the child in the solar, for he was so distracted by the goings on in the hall that he began to carp and would not feed properly. Settling the baby on her broad hip, she carried him upstairs. His cradle had been placed alongside his sisters’ bed. Johanna would learn nothing this morning thanks to the babe. Nor would she see the handsome captain. Scowling at her charge, Johanna dragged the curtain across the opening, lest a chance visitor to the solar should disturb the already unsettled infant.

  ‘You’re a nuisance, you are.’ She wagged her finger at him but, being genuinely fond of the baby, she bore him no ill will. Philippe gurgled and stopped grizzling. He smiled and waved a chubby fist at her. Johanna gave him a loving shake. ‘You’re a charmer, and all. All smiles now you’ve got your own way.’

  She plumped down on the bed, stretched out her legs and unlaced her gown. Philippe responded well to the peace and quiet and was soon sucking vigorously. The bed was bulging with feathers – it was soft, and baby Philippe warm. After a minute or so, Johanna’s eyelids became heavy. The conversation down in the hall was no more than a distant buzz. Now and then one voice or another would rise above the others, but gently, like waves breaking on a distant shore. Half asleep, Johanna’s mind wandered. She visualised herself walking the length of a beach. Striding at her side was Ned Fletcher. His hair was bleached by a summer sun. He turned and looked at her. His eyes were as blue as the sky, and he was smiling...

  Philippe’s head lolled heavily to one side, the milk dribbling from his tiny rosebud mouth. He was sated, and his eyes were closed.

  In a minute I’ll lace myself up and put him in his cradle, Johanna thought lazily. She was too comfortable to rouse herself, and surely no one would object if she took a short nap? She folded her arms securely round the sleeping babe, exhaled softly, and joined Philippe St Clair in sleep.

  Half an hour later, she jerked suddenly awake, wondering what had disturbed her. Instinctively she looked at the infant, but Philippe’s small body lay tranquil against her breast – he was fast asleep. The draught blowing through the window slit must have woken her.

  Easing the baby from her breast, Johanna pulled the edges of her gown together, moving slowly so she did not joggle him. She did not want to get up, but she couldn’t lie on Gwenn Herevi’s bed all day. Baby Philippe might have the colic, but her brother would be avid for news. Conan had bribed the carter who brought in Kermaria’s supplies from Vannes, and usually Johanna left verbal messages with him. More rarely, Conan himself would ride in on the carter’s wagon and arrange to meet her in the stables. If caught, he would say he was peddling. Johanna failed to see why Conan was so interested in life at Kermaria. Her plump red lips pursed. She must ask her brother why he needed to know so much – she didn’t want to help him if it meant harm might come to Captain Fletcher. Thoughtfully, she ran grubby hands over the fine coverlet. It was silk, imported from Nicaea in the Holy Land. Johanna did not know what silk felt like, nor had she heard of Nicaea, but she recognised quality when she came across it. She hoped Mistress Gwenn and Katarin appreciated how fortunate they were to slumber in such a bed.

  She heard a soft footfall in the solar. Someone was moving about out there. It must have been the creaking of the solar door that had woken her, not the chilly spring breeze. Tenderly she wiped Philippe’s mouth with her sleeve and put him in his cradle. Philippe didn’t so much as murmur. Babies were so trusting.

  The breeze lifted the curtain of the sleeping-alcove and Johanna saw Gwenn Herevi. She sucked in a breath and drew back, full lips thinning. She hadn’t made a sound, nor would she; she would snatch at this heaven-sent chance of observing her rival unseen.

  Gwenn was standing by the shelf where that statue of the Virgin was kept. Johanna saw her pick it up. She could hear her muttering under her breath. Gwenn Herevi couldn’t be talking to the statue, surely? The girl must be mad, Johanna thought hopefully. And salting that idea away in the back of her mind, where it would stay until she found a use for it – perhaps in her bid to win Ned Fletcher – Johanna squatted down on her haunches to watch what Sir Jean’s bastard was doing.

  ***

  ‘What do you mean, the wench refuses to do it?’ the Dowager Countess snapped. ‘We’ve been generous enough, haven’t we?’

  Since her fall, Marie de Roncier’s legs were shaky, and as she continued to spurn crutches, she had had to submit to being carried down to the hall of Huelgastel. She had consented reluctantly to this indignity, but her son had sweetened the draught by ordering her a chair similar in construction to his own. Throne-like, it had armrests at the side, and Marie had discovered that there was nothing she like better than to sit in state in her cushioned chair and queen over her son’s kingdom. The Countess Eleanor, who spent more and more time in the chapel, made no objection. Enthroned in her chair, a rug draped across her useless legs, Marie glared at the pedlar from Vannes.

  ‘You’ve been more than generous, madame,’ Conan answered, and, seeing danger in his patroness’s flashing black eyes, he fell on his knees. The granite flags were hard and cold through the scant rush covering, but the pedlar had learned early on in life that the nobility liked respect enough to pay for it, and he didn’t mind a bit of boot-licking – or in the Countess’s case, slipper-licking – if it meant the noble lady would keep him in her employ.

  ‘Why won’t she do it?’ the Countess demanded, testily.

  The woman was as tenacious as a terrier with a rat to shake, Conan thought. Then, because this thought set in motion an impolitic smile he had difficulty suppressing, he hastily looked at the floor. Let her think me subservient. Stammering, he tried to explain the unexplainable, ‘I...I think Johanna has a f...fondness for the child.’

  ‘Fondness?’ The Countess’s eyes were hard with disbelief. ‘Fondness? Don’t fob me off with lies! You can’t tell me that all these months we’ve been paying your sister to keep her ears to the ground, she’s been nursing a fondness for St Clair’s brat!’

  ‘I’m sorry, madame, but it’s the truth,’ Conan mumbled, bowing his head so low he could have kissed the flags at the Countess’s feet. He wished his belly did not ache. This bending double did not help his delicate constitution. A drop of that wine on the side trestle would put some fire in his insides... Out of the corner of his eye Conan saw the Countess’s red satin slippers tap – there was life left in those feet then – and the next moment he felt the sting of her cane as she flicked his temple.

  ‘Oh, stop grovelling, do,’ she clucked impatiently. ‘I can’t make out what you’re saying when you mumble at the ground.’

  The pedlar tried to meet the Dowager’s gaze, but her coal-black eyes were bolder than any whore in Vannes and, finding himself out-stared, he found himself looking at her bosom instead.

  Marie made a choking sound in her throat. ‘It’s not good enough,’ she said.

  ‘My apologies, madame,’ Conan mumbled, uncertain whether she was referring to the disobedience of his sister, or his looking at her sagging breasts. To be safe, he shifted his eyes to the wimple covering her throat. Was it a scraggy throat under the spotless linen? The throat of an old bird who had lived too long?

  ‘You’re certain she can’t be persuaded? Have you offered her more?’

  ‘Aye, madame. I only had to hint at poison, and she went all tragic on me. Saying as how did I think she could harm a child who’d sucked the nourishment from her own p–’

  Marie flourished her cane for silence. ‘Spare me the sordid details.’

  Her bold eyes fastened on something behind Conan and, turning, he saw Count François de Roncier stalking up the hall. With a sigh, he bent his creaking spine even lower. His stomach gurgled a protest. ‘Good evening, mon seigneur.’

  ‘You may go,’ Marie said. Conan hesitated, and she glared past her hook of a nose, restively tapping her cane on her chair leg.

  ‘You...you will employ me again, won’t you, madame?’

  Thin, bloodless
lips were stretched into what might have been intended as a smile. ‘Naturally I’ll employ you. I can’t rely on your sister, but so far I’ve not been able to fault you.’

  ‘I...I assure you, madame, I am yours to command,’ Conan said eagerly, and because he knew it was expected of him, he ignored his griping belly and gave another ingratiating bow. ‘My thanks, madame.’ Thankful that his sister’s mutiny had not lost him a good source of income, he bowed himself out.

  Marie smiled apologetically at her son. ‘I have to admit, François, that the plan I discussed with you earlier has failed.’

  ‘The brat’s wet nurse refuses to “spice” his gruel?’

  ‘That’s it in a nutshell. I’d hoped the wench could be persuaded, and we could have solved your problem with the minimum of bloodshed, and without arousing suspicion. After all, infancy is fraught with dangers – why, your own sister Sybille died when she was barely six months old. It would have been the lesser of two evils.’ Marie sighed. ‘However, apparently the pedlar’s sister has feelings for St Clair’s heir. I regret her attitude, but the girl’s brother says she won’t budge on this.’ Her thin mouth drooped. ‘I don’t want you to lose ground to St Clair any more than you do, François. Perhaps the time has come for firmer measures.’

  François smiled. ‘You’ve come round to my way of thinking, Mother?’

  ‘Aye, my son. I think that I have.’

  ***

  Jean was in the stables. He had dismissed the groom and was brushing his dead wife’s horse, Dancer, himself. The mare’s coat was brown, she had liquid eyes and white stockings on three of her legs. A pretty creature, Jean had bought her for Yolande soon after she and the children had been evicted from Vannes. Yolande had not ridden Dancer since she had first discovered that she was pregnant, but Jean knew that she had loved the animal. After Yolande’s death, Jean had lifted responsibility for the grooming of the horse from the stableboy’s shoulders and taken it upon his own. He had not missed a day since his wife’s death. The grooming of Yolande’s mare had become in some inexplicable way a ritual whereby he imagined he maintained a link with his wife. No one came running to him with day-to-day concerns while he was in the stable, and he indulged in flights of fancy that a year ago he would have dismissed as maudlin and unrealistic.