The Stone Rose Read online

  He would pretend that he was grooming Yolande’s mare prior to their taking a ride together. Any moment now, he would think, Yolande will walk smiling through that open door, and I will link my hands together to form a step for her, and she will mount, and we will be off, trotting sedately out of the yard and...

  ‘Ned? Ned?’

  Recognising his eldest daughter’s voice, Jean came out of his daydream with a jolt. He moved to the door and leaned out. Gwenn was tearing across the yard towards the too young and too handsome captain. Jean sighed wearily and his brows jutted, for Gwenn was barefoot and her skirts were bunched up round her knees. She was running so fast she looked certain to run into the Englishman. Momentarily forgetting his bereavement, Jean slipped into an older, happier, mode of thinking and resolved to remind Yolande to have a word with the girl. Then remembrance shivered cold through his veins. Yolande would not speak to Gwenn, or anyone, not in this life. Yolande was dead. It was up to him to sort his daughter out...

  ‘Ned?’ Gwenn panted. To add insult to injury, as his daughter slithered to a halt in front of the captain, Jean saw her grasp his arms to steady herself.

  ‘Mistress?’ Ned responded warily, and disengaged himself as soon as he was able, for he had seen Jean hovering hawk-eyed in the stable doorway.

  Gwenn tossed a shining but dishevelled rope of hair over one shoulder. ‘Ned, can we ride?’

  ‘Gwenn, what are you about?’ Jean interrupted as forcefully as he could. It was a task these days, finding energy to be forceful about anything. A month ago he had finally taken his heir’s case to the Duke’s court to establish his claim to the de Wirce lands. He had made his hold reasonably secure; he had promoted Fletcher to captain; taken on more men-at-arms... He knew he ought to do more, but lately Jean left everything to Waldin. He had lost heart.

  ‘P...Papa?’

  ‘If you could see yourself,’ Jean strode over, ‘pelting across the yard with your skirts hitched up. You’re a disgrace, Gwenn, a disgrace.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Papa, but I’m bursting for a ride, and I thought Ned–’

  Jean St Clair made a hook of one brow. ‘Ned?’

  ‘My apologies, Papa. I forgot...’ Gwenn trailed off. Her father’s face was set harder than the Israelites’ stone tablets. She lifted speaking eyes to her father’s, but was prudent enough to keep her tongue wedged between her teeth, and any rebellious comments locked inside her. Her father looked so tired.

  ‘Get inside, Gwenn,’ Jean said, coldly.

  ‘Aye, sir.’ She bobbed him a curtsy.

  ‘And do something about your hair, will you? It looks like a haystack this morning. What would your Mama have said?’

  A hand flew to her hair. ‘I’m sorry, Papa.’ Head up, she walked back to the hall.

  ‘And as for you, Captain,’ Jean roused himself to speak severely, ‘leave my daughter alone, will you? By Christ, if I catch you speaking familiarly to Mistress Gwenn...’

  The threat was left hanging in the air, but Ned understood. He would lose his captaincy and would have to go elsewhere for his daily bread.

  ‘I’ll try, sir,’ Ned said, ‘but sometimes I find it a trial, because your daughter...’

  Jean found a smile. ‘I know, lad,’ he said, with complete understanding. ‘She forgets the difference in your stations. I should have found her a husband long since, but now that Lady Yolande is gone, she is a great comfort, and I don’t want to lose her.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Ned sympathised with that. He did not want to lose Gwenn either, not that she would ever be his, of course, but the idea of her marrying and leaving Kermaria left him sick inside.

  ‘But,’ Jean’s voice took on a hard edge, ‘it is up to you, Captain Fletcher, to keep her at a proper distance. It is up to you to remind her.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Nodding gruffly at Ned, Jean returned to Dancer and picked up the curry comb. He knew he ought to resume enquiries and choose a husband for Gwenn. He had a couple of candidates in mind, but after a few minutes’ miserable contemplation, he abandoned his line of thought. It didn’t cheer him at all.

  Pensively, he stroked Dancer’s immaculate coat. He didn’t want to lose his daughter. The loss of Yolande was enough for one lifetime. Apart from his children, Jean had nothing left worth losing. Another twisted smile surfaced. The one positive thing to come out of Yolande’s death was that he had become immune to fear. Nothing on this earth could intimidate him. Having lost his darling, he was beyond anyone’s reach. And as for title to the land that he had coveted for so long, he had his heir now, and doubtless the Duke’s court would decided in Philippe’s favour. It was up to Philippe to pursue that when he was grown. Jean no longer cared.

  ***

  Alan shortened his reins and, waving Duke Geoffrey’s mounted guard to one side, looked about the port of Vannes with interest. It was high tide, and the sky was overcast. Cloud-grey water lapped near the top of the jetties. A fishing boat was moored in the mouth of the harbour, and a lone cormorant stood on its bow, wings outstretched. It had been diving. Alan smiled as the bird shook its wings in the breeze to dry them. The smells of a thriving quayside, of salt and oysters, of crabs and fishes’ entrails, were inescapable.

  It was almost a year since the Duke’s business had last brought Alan to Vannes, and it hadn’t altered in that time. It was true that work had progressed well on the cathedral. The walls were soaring up, and it was rumoured the bishop was bringing glaziers all the way from Paris to install some of the new coloured glass that had been so admired in Nôtre Dame. But St Peter’s aside, Vannes was unchanged.

  Alan looked towards the Duke. He was riding Firebrand, a chestnut courser Alan had always admired, and he was surrounded by a vast, glittering retinue. Alan grimaced. This was one aspect of life with the Duke that he could do without, the hangers-on. There were always hangers-on, except when the Duke made a rare escape to one of his bolt-holes. And look at them. Knights in their court finery – lords wearing heavy velvets, embroidered hats with great plumes, and gauntlets encrusted with seed pearls. Their horses had ribbons plaited through their shiny well-groomed manes as if they were love-sick girls. Why, half of those pretty, plumed knights didn’t know one end of a sword from the other.

  There on the quayside was all the noise and brashness of a ducal court used to moving about the country wherever its duke went. It was a pageant, staged to impress. But did it? Alan noted a handful of fishermen watching the show. Their eyes were cynical as they took in the Phrygian caps, the rich embroidery, the bright flowing capes and the gilded harness. The fisherfolk were unimpressed. Alan felt he understood. What had the Duke’s court to do with the grinding poverty of their lives?

  The court was on the quayside to meet a ship from Nantes carrying a new warhorse for the Duke. He hoped to have a few months’ drilling with his latest acquisition before trying his luck at the King of France’s tournament in Paris. They would shortly be leaving the Morbihan Gulf, riding north for Rennes and the practice lists there. Alan looked forward to it. The tourney and the war games were one aspect of his service that he enjoyed. But before they departed, Alan intended to ask for leave to visit his brother William. It wasn’t far to St Félix’s Monastery, which lay in the forest about ten miles west of Vannes. He only hoped that William was still there and that his talents as a painter had not been required elsewhere.

  Alan kneed his mount through the crowd of courtiers. ‘What’s the name of the vessel, Your Grace?’ he asked. He had seen François de Roncier’s colours flying from a number of ships, and concluded the Count must yet be a force in the area.

  ‘Name? Oh. Sea Serpent.’

  ‘It’s in. There.’ Alan pointed past a wide-brimmed hat at a slender ship with a green painted snake curving along its prow. It was squeezed between two hulks flying de Roncier’s flag.

  ‘Out of my way, Martell,’ the Duke said. ‘And try and keep this lot out of it, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ replied a hand
some young knight clad simply in brown, a pheasant among the peacocks.

  ‘Come on, le Bret.’ Duke Geoffrey spurred through his courtiers towards the ship. Even as the Duke and Alan trotted up, the charger was being led off. He was vast, with heavy bones and crushing hoofs the size of trenchers. Every time he put a hoof down, the gangplank creaked and shuddered. His coat was dark as a moonless night. The Duke’s Master of the Horse was no runt, being a long, stick of a man who topped Alan by over a head, but the Duke’s new warhorse dwarfed him.

  ‘Jesu!’ Alan let out an appreciative whistle. ‘I hardly reach his shoulders!’

  Duke Geoffrey grinned. ‘He’ll even the odds for me, eh, le Bret?’

  ‘Fit for a king,’ Alan said, sincerely.

  The Duke’s grin enlarged. ‘That’s what I hoped you’d say. Philip will be green.’

  ‘The animal will bear your colours well, Your Grace. His midnight coat will be handsome against the black and white.’

  ‘That had occurred to me.’ The Duke dismounted, eyes fixed on the warhorse.

  Alan decided that now would be a good a time as any to put in his request for leave. ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘Mmm?’ The Duke dropped Firebrand’s reins and moved forwards.

  Jumping down to the quayside, Alan stooped for the abandoned courser’s reins. ‘About my leave–’

  ‘Not now, le Bret.’ Duke Geoffrey put his hand to the coal-black withers which rippled under his touch. The stallion stood firm and blew out through his nose.

  ‘Your Grace, at Suscinio last August you said I could take my leave in a month or two. It’s April now.’

  The Duke sent him a preoccupied look, and turned back to his stallion. ‘Is he ready, Brian?’

  ‘As ready as he’ll ever be, Your Grace,’ the Master of the Horse said.

  ‘Fetch his saddle.’

  Brian looked concerned. ‘But Your Grace...in town?’

  ‘In town,’ the Duke confirmed.

  Alan patted Firebrand’s silken neck. ‘We’re forgotten, my friend,’ he said. Firebrand’s ears twitched. Alan raised his voice, ‘Your Grace?’

  The Duke frowned. ‘Christ’s wounds, le Bret, I thought you’d gone back to your troop.’ Brian was returning with the saddle. Grabbing it, the Duke threw it over the warhorse’s broad back himself. ‘Go on then, le Bret. Where did you say you wanted to go?’

  ‘St Félix-in-the-Wood.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s near Kermaria, Your Grace.’

  The Duke straightened. ‘Kermaria. That name’s familiar. Who holds it, do you know?’

  ‘Sir Jean St Clair.’

  The Duke rubbed his chin. ‘A tenant of mine, a small one, but nevertheless.... Has he sworn fealty?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, Your Grace.’

  The Duke grunted. ‘You may have a week’s leave, le Bret, on condition that you visit Kermaria on my behalf. I want a full report on this Sir Jean, and the state of his manor, number of serfs, freemen, soldiers, and so on. The place was derelict, but that may have changed. It may actually be useful these days. Sort it out with your men, and ask my chaplain to see you get a letter of introduction to take with you. I’m to meet with Duchess Constance, and if I’m gone when you return, go to Rennes. I’ll need you there.’

  ‘My thanks,’ Alan said. He was well content to have a legitimate excuse to visit his cousin. He had often wondered how Ned was faring. A lot could have happened to young Ned in the two years since Alan had seen him. And apparently St Félix’s cell was a stone’s throw from Kermaria. Alan was owed rather more than a week’s leave, but at this moment a week was all he wanted. He gestured to the chestnut courser whose reins he still held. ‘Shall I have Firebrand stabled, Your Grace?’

  The Duke tightened his warhorse’s girth. ‘No, you can take him, le Bret. I know you enjoy riding him. Brian here can take your mount.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Alan tossed his own mount’s reins to the Master of the Horse, switched his gear to Firebrand and mounted him swiftly, lest the Duke changed his mind. He nudged the shining chestnut flanks with his heels and trotted briskly towards his men.

  ***

  The larks that were carolling over the fields to the east could be heard clear over Kermaria marsh. But the larks were the first creatures to waken and as their song was the only sign of life, it went largely unheard. Dawn was an hour away. The whispering sedge and rushes, which a sharp frost had coated with a delicate film of ice, stood dumb, unmoved by wind or wildfowl. The coots and moorhens, snug in nests in the reeds, slept on. The stillness was absolute. It radiated from the marsh – a web of silence spun so large it cloaked not only mere and reeds but also the bridge, the peasants’ cots, the stables, and all of St Clair’s tower right up to the sentry who sat behind a merlon with his red head nodding over his spear. Everything was snared, gently, but firmly, in that web.

  The disturbance was small at first. Hardly more than a shiver in the chill, dusky air, an imperceptible ripple of movement which shook the strands of the web and then faded. The silence seemed to grow heavier. Then the movement came again, only this time it was stronger. There was an insignificant sucking noise, as though someone had been marching through the marsh and had inadvertently put their foot into a boggy patch, and was pulling it free.

  ‘Hell!’ A harsh whisper rattled the reeds. A lantern flap opened a crack, and as a yellow wedge of light streamed forth, it lit up a fenland bristling with men who stood taller than the fresh willow shoots pushing their way to the sky. The men’s spears were more pointed than the frost-tipped reeds, and in the light of the lantern they flashed more brightly.

  The big man holding the lantern clenched his fist and controlled an urge to strike the fool who had broken the silence. ‘Quiet, dog,’ Otto Malait mouthed.

  ‘Damn sedge,’ the trooper muttered, licking blood from his palm. He displayed a vivid slash running across his hand. ‘Edge is sharper than my sword.’

  Otto’s hand rose as he delivered a swingeing clout to the fellow’s ears. ‘Be silent,’ he hissed. Flicking the lantern cover, he extinguished the light.

  A sedge warbler gave a warning cry as Otto pushed forwards. The web of silence trembled. A moorhen shot out from under his boots, echoing the warbler’s note of alarm. Resigned that the silence was lost, Otto ploughed on. He had his orders. His men must cover as much ground as possible if they were going to be in position before the sun melted the frost on the reeds.

  Count de Roncier planned to lead his attack from the north, while Otto had been commanded to direct his men via the marsh to the village. From there they were to force their way into the courtyard. Otto wondered if de Roncier was in position. If this raid was to be effective, they must strike before first light.

  ***

  Katarin’s whimpering disturbed Gwenn. ‘What is it, little one?’ She yawned, turning in bed so she could embrace her sister.

  ‘Thunder,’ Katarin muttered, burying her head in Gwenn’s shoulder. ‘Katarin doesn’t like thunder.’

  Gwenn listened. ‘But that’s not thunder, Katarin. That sounds like someone trying to get in.’ She pushed her sister’s clinging hands to one side and strained her ears. ‘No, it most certainly is not thunder. Someone’s forcing the–’ Gwenn broke off. This was no casual visitor seeking shelter.

  Wondering what had happened to the guard and why the alarm bell was not ringing, Gwenn swung out of bed and groped for an unlit candle stub. ‘Stay there, Katarin. Watch Philippe. Papa! Papa!’ she called, running to the solar hearth and shoving the wick of the candle into the faintly glowing embers. The candle sputtered reluctantly into life and, belatedly, the tocsin began to peal.

  Jean emerged from his bedchamber half clothed and buckling on his sword. ‘Get dressed,’ he said. Snatching up his shield, he dived for the twisting stairs. ‘Keep Katarin and Philippe up here. If necessary, don’t hesitate to bar this door.’

  ‘Aye, Papa.’ Barring the door would be a last, hop
eless measure, for it would mean that all her father’s men were... Fear tied a knot in Gwenn’s belly, and her mind shied away from the gruesome images her imagination conjured up. Her father could not have meant that. Gwenn wondered what he had meant, and how she was to judge when locking the door was necessary. A thousand other questions milled round in her sleep-dazed mind, but they too must go unanswered.

  Holding her candle high, Gwenn’s gaze swept the solar. The glazed eyes of half a dozen women blinked up at her. There was no sign of panic yet, only confusion. The thundering assault on the hall door had settled into a rhythm so regular it was almost soothing.

  ‘You heard my father,’ Gwenn said, pleased her voice was steady. She did not want to set them screeching. ‘We must get dressed. Mary, light the candles, if you please. And Johanna, I’d be grateful if you could come and see to Philippe.’ Candle aloft, she led Johanna back to her niche, trying to remember if there were any weapons up here. They all had their eating knives, naturally, and there was a dagger at the bottom of Izabel’s ancient chest.

  A tearing crack, which could be nothing else but a solid oak door being hewed apart, made her miss a step. A roar from below, and she felt herself grow pale. She heard the clash of steel on steel. A man howled like a wolf and fell silent, and the silence was worse than the howl. Hot wax spilled on her hand, burned her. She gasped.