The Stone Rose Read online

  The wine was rich and heady and made her head spin. ‘Why, Conan!’ she exclaimed, when she had drained her cup. ‘You are good to me!’

  Conan did not feel at all generous. Reluctantly, he topped up her cup. The mongrel had slunk under the table and to relieve his feelings, Conan tried to kick it, but the dog, used to this treatment, nimbly evaded his boot. Indeed, the expenditure rankled to such an extent that when the whore who was serving them demanded instant payment, Conan fumbled the coins, dropping them on the floor. He picked them up, and the brainless dog licked his hand. ‘You’ve had a hard time of it lately, sister,’ Conan said when the wench had disappeared with his money. And though the words stuck in his throat, he even managed to add, ‘If your brother cannot buy you a drink at a time of trial, who can?’

  If Conan’s generosity was unexpected, his sympathy was doubly so, and the dim hostelry was lost in a sudden mist as Johanna counted her miseries and her eyes brimmed. Ned Fletcher’s bright, Saxon features wavered in her mind’s eye. Her feet throbbed. She had no money. She would never see the English captain again. Thrusting her nose into her cup, she emptied it like a trooper.

  Trusting his money was well-spent, Conan had the bottle ready and poured bravely.

  ‘I’m hungry, Conan,’ Johanna said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

  ‘I’ll order in a minute, the servers are busy.’ The servers were not busy, but Conan wanted his sister well-oiled before she ate. If she ate before she drank, it would cost twice as much in wine to make her talk. He regarded her impartially while he waited for the wine to take effect.

  Johanna had rolled her wide sleeves up to her elbows and her plump arms rested on the table. Her cheeks were round, rosy and shiny as two apples, for the walk had made her hot, and her face and forehead bore a film of perspiration. More downy hairs covered her upper lip. The dress that she had so improvidently wasted her money on, was of good quality fabric, but it was now stained with the dust of the road and there were unsightly sweat marks under her arms.

  Last winter, it had been the fashion among noble women to leave the side seams of their over-gown, or bliaud, open, lacing them at intervals so that the coloured undergown was revealed. Conan had seen Countess Eleanor de Roncier wear such a bliaud. His sister had clearly aped this fashion, but she had failed to take into account the fullness of her figure. Johanna’s bliaud was in fact a replica of one of Gwenn Herevi’s, and Johanna, no needlewoman, had cobbled it together in the hope of attracting Ned Fletcher’s attention. But far from giving her the elegance that she was striving for, the effect was lumpy and messy. Conan grinned. Johanna bulged out of the sides of her gown like a sausage which was too fat for its casing. Controlling his expression, he replenished her cup. He had lost count of how much she had drunk, but the bottle was down to three fingers, and he had barely sipped from his own cup.

  Johanna lifted a hand to her head and rubbed it wearily. The wine had numbed the pain in her feet, but it was having a depressing effect on her senses. She wished Conan would hurry and order food. Wine had a strange effect on an empty stomach, and the one Conan had chosen seemed stronger than usual. Johanna felt listless and tired, and her eyes were having difficulty in focusing.

  ‘It’s a shame you never did as I asked about the poppy juice,’ Conan opened, cautiously. Brown eyes blinked at him through plump fingers. ‘The babe was obviously cursed, and you lost a chance to make a coin or two.’ His sister removed her hand from her eyes and it flopped clumsily onto the table. Conan took this as a sign that the wine was doing its work.

  ‘What do you mean, the babe was obviously cursed?’ The whites of Johanna’s eyes had gone pink, as though she had been weeping.

  ‘He died, didn’t he?’

  It was a struggle for Johanna to recollect the story she and Holy Mary had concocted between them. ‘Oh, aye. The babe died of the marsh fever.’

  ‘And as the infant’s death was so obviously fated, I was thinking it a pity that you had not profited by it. If you have given him the drug, you could have claimed de Roncier’s reward.’ He heaved a remorseful sigh. ‘As it is, the child is dead and you have nothing.’

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘In a minute, Johanna.’

  Johanna raised her cup and summoned a shaky smile. ‘I can wait. This wine takes the edge off my appetite.’ And my grief, she thought. She wondered how much distance there was between her and Ned Fletcher and her babe. She hoped Malait had called off his dogs.

  Conan smiled, and held out a fresh bottle. ‘Have some more, sister.’

  ‘I might have been rich, Conan,’ Johanna said confidingly, watching the red stream pour into her cup.

  ‘Rich,’ he agreed.

  ‘Captain Malait did call his men off, didn’t he?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Reassured that her captain was safely away, Johanna continued with her confession. It was wonderful to discover that she had a sympathetic brother. ‘I might have had anything I wanted.’ She paused to sip her wine. She had drunk too much to notice that this second bottle was a rougher, less dear, wine. Conan was not about to spend more than he had to.

  ‘Not quite anything, sister, but certainly the Count’s reward would have bought you a trinket or two.’

  ‘No, Conan. You don’t know... I could have had more than any poxy trinket, if I’d set my mind to it. I saw where she hid it.’ Conan’s muscles clenched, but Johanna was too absorbed in her thoughts to notice. ‘No one else knew. All I had to do was to reach out my hand and take it.’

  Conan’s breath was suspended. He did not have the faintest notion what his sister was babbling about, but it sounded as though they were coming to it. An encouraging noise was all the speech he dared make. ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I missed my chance, Conan. Because of Ned Fletcher. If it had not been for the English captain, I would have taken it months ago.’

  ‘Taken what, Johanna?’ Conan asked as casually as he could.

  Unsteadily, Johanna set her cup down and stared at the table which was rocking slightly from side to side. ‘Conan, I’ve been a fool.’ She focused on him, and he was astonished to see disillusionment in her eyes. ‘You’d kill me if you knew the chance I’d passed up.’

  Conan reached for his sister’s hand, and patted it awkwardly. ‘Kill you? Never.’

  ‘Oh, Conan,’ to his horror her eyes began to fill, ‘you are kind. Such a good brother.’ She sobbed.

  ‘There, there. Never mind, Johanna. Have another drink, and tell your brother all about it.’

  ***

  Dusk was over in a matter of moments, for a dark blanket of clouds was draped low in the sky, hiding the moon and evening star. The blanket of grey seemed to absorb the last of the daylight rays, and all at once the western sky was no lighter than the eastern sky. Night settled over the forest.

  Nose to the ground, a she-wolf was beating the bounds of her territory. She was sleek and content, having gorged herself on a fox cub which had foolishly strayed too far from its den. Her teats were full of milk, for she had cubs of her own. She would not leave them for long.

  The wolf was unfettered by the lack of light. Here, where the trees grew at their thickest and wildest and a million leaves blocked out both sun and moon alike, even summer nights were of the darkest kind. The wolf’s lamp-like eyes had a feral glow to them which, though muted, was more than enough to light her path. She stalked boldly through the woody acres, for this was her domain and there was little in it that she feared.

  Her nostrils flared as she went, and she caught the interlopers’ scent before she heard them. Holding her body as rigid as a century-old oak, she sniffed again. Here was a scent that lifted the fur on the back of her neck. Here was a scent that brought a low, rumbling growl to the base of her throat. Here was something the wolf did fear. Here was man.

  The she-wolf had sense to keep her growl locked in her throat. Poised on her pads, ears pricked, she sniffed, judging the magnitude of the threat. She heard a cry, one
of hunger, and when her teats ached in instant response, instinct told her that the men must have a baby with them. The wolf cocked her head to one side, wondering why the hateful yellow heat which men always placed besides them was not there now. There were other scents the wolf recognised; horse, and mule. The cry came again, her full teats burned, and lowering herself to her belly, she edged round the men’s encampment to keep her own scent from reaching the horses. She crept closer. The smell of fear hung in the air.

  Cloaks were spread out over the carpet of leaves and debris on the forest floor, like islands in a pool crowded with water weeds. A man and a woman were seated on one of the islands; they had a child and a baby with them. The baby was quiet now, sucking milk from a cup held by the woman. On the other cloak, not two feet away from this group, another man sat alone.

  ‘Katarin?’ The woman whispered to the child. Her words meant nothing to the wolf. ‘Would you like more bread?’

  The child shook her head. It was this child, the wolf realised, who smelt most strongly of fear. The isolated man, whose gaze was abstracted, was staring fixedly at his knee-high boots.

  ‘Katarin? Please try to answer.’ The woman’s voice had a thread of desperation running through it, and the man with the boots looked across at her. ‘Would you like more bread, Katarin? Some milk?’

  The child shook her head.

  ‘It’s no use badgering her,’ the man seated next to the woman spoke. His hair gleamed white through the darkness. ‘She’ll answer you when she’s ready.’

  ‘Don’t worry, mistress.’ The man with the boots stirred. ‘It’s a temporary affliction. The child was hurt at Kermaria.’

  ‘But, Alan, she bears no wound. I’ve examined every inch of her.’

  ‘It’s not her body that was wounded. I’ve seen similar illnesses before – in soldiers returning from battle. They escaped apparently unscathed, yet they too were struck dumb for a time. I have observed how it tends to afflict those with a more...delicate cast of mind. It passes.’

  ‘But how long? How long till she heals?’

  ‘I cannot say. Your sister seems strong in her body, but who can say what is going on in a child’s mind – in anyone’s mind? Give her time.’ He stretched himself out on his cloak and dragged it over his shoulders. ‘Get to sleep as soon as you can. We’ll be on the move at first light.’

  An owl hooted, and the she-wolf watched until the humans’ stirrings ceased. The smell of fear thickened, and by it the wolf knew that the child was not asleep. Curious, and certain now that the interlopers intended her no harm, the wolf watched, and waited. The smell of another’s fear was a potent attraction.

  The little girl stirred and sat up. Next to her, the woman sighed in her sleep, but she did not waken. The child got to her feet and began walking in a line that would lead her directly to the wolf. The wolf tensed, not to spring, for she was not hungry, but ready to fly for cover.

  ‘Katarin,’ the solitary man was awake, ‘where are you going?’

  The wind shook the leaves and there was silence.

  The solitary man sighed, got up, and walked through the coal-black night to where the child hovered on the edge of the clearing. He stopped not three feet away from the wolf’s twitching nose. Close up, the toes of his boots were shiny and polished. ‘Can’t you sleep, Katarin?’ he asked, gently.

  Doubtfully, the girl shook her head.

  The man lowered himself to the child’s level, and made his voice smile, ‘Are you afraid?’

  The shake was more positive.

  ‘Not afraid, eh?’ The man gave an amused snort. ‘You’re braver than I would be in your shoes, Katarin. Perhaps you are cold?’

  The child considered this, and nodded.

  ‘So am I, Katarin. And I’m lonely on my own. Come, you’ll be warmer with me. Would you like to sleep with me?’ He held his palm out towards her, and the child took it without hesitating.

  ‘Sensible girl,’ the man murmured, and picking her up, he carried her back to his cloak.

  The smell of fear was diffused now, broken up by the breeze. The she-wolf’s milk-filled teats reminded her of her young, and she crept soundlessly away. When she had put a good distance between her and the interlopers, she stood upright and raced off, a dark streak in a darker night, to see her cubs were safe.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was cool under the heavy canopy of leaves, and as the bridleway was nothing more than a slender brown ribbon winding gently through a sea of foaming bracken, they had to ride in single file. Alan sat easily in his saddle. As guide he took the leader’s place. Gwenn, riding Dancer, came second – she carried her brother before her. Ned brought up the rear with Katarin. The monks’ best saddle had been put on Dancer, and Ned was left battling with a broken-down saddle he reckoned old enough to have seen service at Hastings. Its frame was cracked, and every time the mule put down a hoof, Ned felt the jarring right up his spine. It was uncomfortable for him and no doubt for the mule too, which might explain the animal’s reluctance to keep up with the others. The cantle of the saddle had had all the stuffing knocked out of it, and the skirt lay flat on the mule’s back, but at the moment this was serving them well, for Katarin sat behind her brother-in-law, hands hooked round his belt.

  ‘Ned, are you alright?’ Gwenn reined in, and waited for her husband to catch up.

  Jabbing in his heels, Ned tried to squeeze another few paces out of his reluctant steed. ‘I’m considering throwing this saddle away. I might make better progress bareback.’

  ‘But what about Katarin?’

  ‘That’s a point; I doubt she’d stay on without a saddle.’ He twisted round to reassure himself that his silent companion was as comfortable as possible, and was rewarded with a vague smile. ‘Good girl,’ he murmured, ‘you’re doing well.’

  Waiting till Ned’s mule reached Dancer’s hindquarters, Gwenn lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Ned, there’s something I’d like you to keep from Alan.’

  ‘Keep from Alan?’ At this point the mule let out a bray of protest and, digging in its hoofs, refused to budge.

  ‘I...I don’t want him to know I’ve got the Stone Rose with me. You won’t tell him, will you?’

  Ned laboured away with his heels, with little effect on the recalcitrant mule. ‘Why should I tell him? It’s not the sort of thing it would occur to me to mention to Alan.’

  ‘I know. But I...I don’t want Alan discovering it’s in your pack. You’ll keep it from him, won’t you?’

  Ned threw her a puzzled glance, and tried shaking his mount’s reins. ‘Aye, but–’

  ‘Ned, please.’

  ‘I won’t mention it if you don’t want me to,’ he said, exasperated and panting with his effort on the mule. The animal was rolling its eyes and champing on its bit, and it would not take a step. ‘Christ, this animal’s got a hide of iron.’ Ned swore and clambered from the saddle. ‘I’ll walk.’

  Alan hailed them from the front. ‘What’s going on?’

  Gwenn urged Dancer through plumes of green bracken towards Alan.

  ‘It’s Ned’s mule,’ she explained when she reached him. ‘It won’t keep up.’

  ‘I’ll take Katarin, if that helps.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘You have kept your low opinion of me, I think,’ Alan said in a soft, intimate voice.

  Gwenn floundered under the cool, grey gaze, and the memory of the promise she had just extracted from Ned stung her to an instant denial that betrayed her true feelings better than she knew. ‘No. No!’

  ‘You always disliked me, didn’t you, mistress?’

  ‘Disliked you?’ Gwenn looked nonplussed. ‘I don’t dislike you.’ Her voice had a ring of truth to it, for though she did not entirely trust him, there had always been a spark of something between them.

  ‘But it galls you to accept my help.’

  ‘No. Alan, I am grateful.’ At that moment, a golden rod of light fell through the branches, bathing Alan’s head with a hal
o of brightness. His hair assumed the blue-black sheen of a raven’s wing, and for an instant his slate-coloured eyes sparkled with a clarity which more than equalled the brilliance of the gem in the Stone Rose.

  Gwenn blinked. The effect of the sunlight on his countenance when all else was in shadow was extraordinary. It made her feel as though she could see to the heart of the man, even perhaps to his soul. As she gazed into eyes that were no longer unfathomable but clear as crystal, she became aware of a curling in her stomach, akin to embarrassment. It was as though she was seeing something very private, something which belonged to Alan alone and yet which attracted her very much. There was a part of Alan le Bret which she yearned to reach out for, which she yearned to cherish... Then Firebrand took a step, the light shifted, and Alan’s eyes looked the way they always did, remote and cloudy with shadows. She was left struggling with a deep, inexplicable sense of loss.

  ‘Mistress?’

  ‘I...I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I offered to lighten Ned’s load and take Katarin.’

  ‘My thanks, cousin.’ Ned had caught up, mule and Katarin in tow. He rubbed the base of his spine and gave an expressive grimace. ‘But I’m better walking.’

  Alan frowned at the mule. ‘I should never have allowed myself to be persuaded to act as your guide. I hope that monk gets my message to Duke Geoffrey. I risk losing the best place I ever had as it is, without that obstinate animal delaying me further. It’s a long way to Ploumanach, cousin. Can you keep pace all the way?’

  ‘I’m not yet doddering, I can keep going for miles.’ Ned grinned. ‘Perhaps when I tire you can take my place.’

  Alan favoured Gwenn with a slow, considering look which brought the hot blood rushing to her cheeks, and sent sinful thoughts scurrying where they had no place to be. ‘Take your place when you tire, Ned?’ he mused, wickedly. ‘I think I should enjoy that.’

  Lifting her chin, and still trying to grasp exactly what it was she had seen in Alan’s eyes, Gwenn clutched her brother to her breast. How was it that one moment the Duke’s captain could rouse feelings of great tenderness in her, and the next moment she could cheerfully strangle him? She wondered if Ned would react badly to Alan’s provocative remark.