The Stone Rose Page 45

  ‘Alan?’ Her aunt looked down her nose in a superior manner. ‘Oh, you mean that other mercenary, Captain le Bret.’

  Her aunt, though she possessed a heart of gold, appeared to have prejudices. Gwenn tossed back her plait. ‘Aye, Alan.’ She refused to refer to him as Captain le Bret. ‘The man who guided us here. Our friend.’ And one whom she missed every minute of the day...

  Since Alan had gone, Gwenn had not felt at peace with herself. She had attributed her distress to understandable grief at the sudden loss of her family and her home. But if Alan’s absence was not contributing to her unhappiness, why did she keep thinking of him? Why did she want to look into those cool grey eyes and touch that raven-dark hair?

  Alis blanched. It was as though her aunt had read her niece’s thoughts. ‘A friend? That man? Oh, my dear, no.’

  ‘Why not? Why can’t Alan be my friend?’

  ‘But, my dear,’ Alis waved her hands in delicate confusion, ‘a mercenary... They can’t be trusted.’

  Ned, her husband, was a mercenary. So they were coming to it, though not in the manner that Gwenn had anticipated. Marzina and Felicia were out of earshot with the children near the shoreline. She plunged in. ‘Tell me, Aunt, what’s the difference between my husband and his cousin, and the men who guard your manor?’

  ‘My dear, the men who guard Ploumanach are bound to the land.’

  ‘Slaves?’

  ‘My dear! Indeed they are not! Their families have served the Wymark family for generations. I would not dream of questioning their loyalty.’

  Noticing that her fingers had curled into her palms, Gwenn deliberately uncurled them, and made her hands rest loosely in her lap. She did not want to alienate this amiable woman who had put a roof over their heads, but she had to speak up for Ned and Alan. ‘Aunt, I’ve learned that mercenaries can be as loyal as men born to a place. Ned served my father honestly and diligently. He risked his life for mine, and–’

  ‘And you should not have let him force you into marrying him.’

  ‘Ned did not force me!’ Her fingers curled up again. She straightened them.

  ‘My dear,’ Alis went on, placid but immovable, ‘I’m sure that Captain Fletcher is a nice enough lad, but can’t you see he is not...er.. quite suitable? I am glad that we are talking so freely about this, Gwenn, as it has been disturbing me. Things cannot remain as they are.’

  ‘Things? What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m talking about the so-called marriage between you and Captain Fletcher.’

  ‘So-called? We were married. At St Félix-in-the-Wood. Prior Hubert married us himself, with the monks as our witnesses. There is no doubt about it, Aunt.’

  ‘My poor girl,’ Lady Alis said, soothingly. ‘All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll ask our priest what can be done about getting you an annulment.’

  ‘An...an annulment?’

  ‘There’s no need for you to worry, my dear. No one would contest the fact that your marriage should not have taken place. What with you in a state of shock...’

  ‘But–’

  ‘I don’t suppose the marriage has been consummated, has it? You haven’t let him...touch you, have you, Gwenn?’

  For all that she gritted her teeth, Gwenn felt her colour rise.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Alis sighed, drawing her own conclusions. ‘The beast. I had hoped he’d spared you that. It would have made matters easier if you were a virgin. However,’ the soft voice brightened, ‘all is not lost, I am sure. This very afternoon, I promise you I shall go and speak to Father Per–’

  ‘Aunt, you will do no such thing! Ned and I were married in the sight of God. I have sworn to keep faith with him, and keep faith I will. If you cannot accept our marriage, then we shall leave Ploumanach.’

  ‘My dear–’

  ‘No, hear me out. Ned loves me,’ a look of distress marred the unruffled calm of Alis’s face, ‘and I have no doubt you think that terribly vulgar. But he does love me, and I am his lawful wife, and I am not going to let you or anyone else change that.’

  ‘You could make a better alliance.’

  ‘A better alliance?’ Gwenn set her teeth. Darting a glance down the beach she saw the children and their companions were safely playing with a pile of shells, out of earshot. ‘A better alliance? I doubt it. Ned deserves a loyal wife, and I...I am very fond of him. If you cannot see your way to providing for us in the same way that you provide for the other married folk working on your estate, then we shall leave.’

  Alis goggled.

  Gwenn forced a smile. ‘I don’t want to quarrel with you, Aunt, but I warn you it is no empty threat. If you cannot accept me and my husband, we shall have to go.’

  ‘And the children, Gwenn? What of them?’ Alis’s gentle eyes strayed hungrily to Katarin and Philippe, and her undisguised longing squeezed Gwenn’s heart.

  ‘They would come with us, of course,’ Gwenn said, ruthlessly. She must suppress any sympathy she might feel for Sir Gregor’s childless wife, because if she did not make her views felt now, at the beginning, matters would only deteriorate. ‘I could not leave them. What would become of Katarin if I abandoned her?’

  Alis stared at the children, her hand crept to her breast. ‘No. Not the children. Please,’ she whispered through lips that hardly moved. ‘For years I have prayed for children, and though I have come to accept that the good Lord has decided I shall not have little ones of my own, I thought...I thought...’

  Weakening, Gwenn touched the older woman’s hand and completed her sentence. ‘You thought that He had sent you these.’ She gestured at her siblings.

  A small movement of Alis’s veil indicated assent. ‘I thought my prayers had been heeded. I thought my autumn years were to be brightened by their presence. I would cherish your brother and sister, Gwenn. I want to love them. But if you go,’ the gentle blue eyes closed as if that thought was too horrible to contemplate, ‘if you go, what a torment I will feel. Already I am fond of them, already I have become used to them. If you go, Gwenn, my life will seem emptier than it did before.’

  ‘Aunt, don’t say that. Oh, God, this is dreadful. I don’t like using the children as a weapon, but you must understand my loyalty to Ned. Unless you accept him, unreservedly, I cannot stay. And how can I leave the children?’

  Alis lifted swimming eyes to Gwenn’s. ‘You really feel loyalty to that...that...young man?’

  Gwenn sensed that the older woman had been about to use a less favourable adjective to describe Ned, but let it pass. ‘I am Ned’s wife, and I intend to remain his wife.’ Hard though it might be for her, maybe it would be best for the children if she left them here and went away with Ned to make a future elsewhere. They could go to the King’s joust. Ned’s experience as a soldier and his enthusiasm would ensure he found a patron and...and...they would see Alan, too. Not that that last must affect her decision. If she and Ned left the children in Alis’s care, there would be no confusing conflict of interests, and they would be safe.

  Alis’s gaze was drawn to the group by the shoreline. She straightened her shoulders and smiled, bringing dimples to either side of her mouth. ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ she said, and Gwenn knew by her tone that she had won. They could stay, all of them. She would not have to abandon the children and Ned would be accepted.

  ‘Will it be so hard, Aunt, to think the better of my husband?’ she asked, sadly.

  ‘I...I... No, of course not.’ Alis put a brave face on it. She may have been forced to bow to Gwenn’s will, but she would try and like the mercenary who had married her niece. How else could she keep the children?

  ‘It’s not such a bad marriage, Aunt, when you look at it dispassionately.’

  ‘You could have had a knight, or a merchant,’ Alis said wistfully.

  ‘Aunt, you’re forgetting, I’m not legitimate. I am only a bast–’

  ‘Hush, Gwenn!’ Alis flung a shocked glance in the direction of the children. ‘Katarin might hear you.’

  ‘
Oh, Aunt Alis,’ Gwenn said, thanking God that her aunt had been blessed with a heart of gold, for she had a narrow bigot’s mind, and it was her only warm heart that redeemed her. ‘Katarin is a bastard too, and one day she is bound to discover it.’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Alis said, stoutly.

  Gwenn bit her tongue and held down a sigh. To her mind such matters were best out in the open, but she did not think it was prudent to air that particular view today. She would have to proceed one step at a time. Today, she had made a stride, and she would save other strides for other days. ‘Aunt?’

  ‘Aye?’ The smile Alis bent on Gwenn bore no trace of ill will. Not only was her aunt blessed with a loving heart, she had a generous nature too. Truly they had come to the right place.

  ‘You will make arrangements for Ned and me to be housed together?’

  ‘Everything shall be as you wish it, my dear. Your Ned can shift his belongings to the family apartments.’

  ‘Up to the solar?’ Gwenn had not expected so complete a victory and knew how much it had must cost Alis to suggest it. ‘There’s no need to go to such lengths. We shall be perfectly happy lodged in the hall with the other families.’

  ‘But the children,’ the older woman objected immediately. ‘I do so love having them at hand.’

  ‘The children may stay in the solar. Katarin has slept like a log every night since we arrived, and as long as she knows where I am, she will not fret. She likes you Aunt Alis.’

  ‘Oh, do you think so?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Gwenn heard a horse pounding along the shrub-lined path which wound from the manor to the tip of the peninsular. Glancing up the beach, she saw Ned charge out of the bushes, mounted on one of Sir Gregor’s mares. His flaxen hair was wind-swept, he had Dancer on a leading rein, and he had apparently been searching for her, for when he saw her, he was out of the saddle, slinging both horses’ reins over a branch. Gwenn’s heart twisted. Purposefully, Ned stalked towards them. ‘It’s N...my husband,’ Gwenn said, unnecessarily, for she could see that her aunt had seen him. Alis was watching Ned warily, as though he were a poisonous snake that might strike at any moment. If only she knew, Gwenn thought, he is softer than she is herself. Ned wouldn’t hurt a soul.

  ‘Good morning, Lady Wymark,’ Ned said briskly, holding one of his solid, dependable hands out to Gwenn. Gwenn took an astonished look at the savage determination on his face and rose without a word. She placed her fingers in his. Ned did not look soft this morning. He looked as though he had come to the end of his tether; and his crushing grip told her that she had resolved the matter of her marriage not a moment too soon.

  ‘I wonder if you could spare Gwenn for a couple of hours, Lady Wymark,’ Ned went on, courteous but firm. ‘Her mare needs exercising, and it’s best if Gwenn rides her. She’s a fine beast, and I’d not want her to lose her stamina.’

  ‘N...no, I d...don’t mind. The mare must be exercised,’ Alis answered, obviously alarmed by Ned’s bearing. Gwenn couldn’t bring herself to meet her eyes. Ned was unwittingly confirming her prejudices. Absurdly, a giggle rose in Gwenn’s throat. Perhaps it would do no harm to let her aunt go on thinking that Ned was fierce – for a little while at least.

  Concealing her amusement she asked, ‘Are you content to stay with the children, Aunt?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, I’d be delighted to look after them.’

  ‘Shall I send for one of the women?’

  ‘N...no. No.’ Her aunt was rallying. ‘I can manage. Run along, my dear. I’ll bring them back to the solar when they’ve had their fill of the beach.’

  ‘Thank you, Aunt.’ Gwenn snatched up her veil, tucked it into her girdle, and let Ned lead her to Dancer. ‘I’m glad you found me, Ned,’ she opened, ‘for I’ve been talking to my aunt...’

  ***

  Conan was caught just when he was beginning to think that there might be a God in Heaven. He should have known better, he thought resentfully, when the pain had eased enough for him to think once more. He should have known that life was not meant to be easy. If only he had not kept the merchant’s wallet. But it had been too good to discard, and he had been fascinated by the outlandish design stamped on the leather. Fool. He was a fool. And to think that he had got so near...

  He had marched up to the guard at Sir Gregor’s gate, ready to offer himself up for work. He had demanded entry and was in the process of sweetening the man with one of his stolen coins when he heard a cavalcade of horses approaching the gate.

  ‘Stand aside, man,’ the guard admonished him. ‘It’s the merchant with my lady’s cloth, and wine from the south.’

  Meekly Conan stood aside, and as he lifted his eyes to the man at the head of the little procession, his skin chilled and he knew his luck had run out. For Lady Wymark’s cloth merchant was the very man from whom he had lifted the scrip back in Lannion.

  ‘Jesus God,’ Conan said, whisking the incriminating object behind his back, for the merchant’s eyes had been drawn to his lost scrip like a bee to the flowers on which it feeds.

  Conan had taken to his heels, of course, but it had been all over for him the moment the merchant had set eyes on his wallet. The merchant’s shriek was as piercing as a hawk’s, and no sooner had he pointed his fat finger than half a dozen of Sir Gregor’s burliest men went hurtling after Conan and pinned him to the ground.

  Then came the accusations.

  He denied it, naturally.

  He said he’d found the purse lying in the road and could not find its owner. Naturally, no one believed him. Sir Gregor was the law in these parts, and they had hauled him up before him. He was tried; found guilty.

  Then came the reckoning. Conan had always considered the loss of a hand was too great a penalty to pay for stealing. He had always vowed that he would never be caught. And if it had not been for the ill luck of having the same merchant come to visit Lady Wymark, he would have got away with it. It was too bad. The sentence was carried out at once. No one wanted the trouble and expense of keeping him locked up till the next quarter sessions. The merchant looked on, gloating and rubbing his hands together. His two hands.

  Conan felt such agony that he did not even notice the added torture of the hot pitch being applied to his poor, bleeding stump. There was blood all over his new linen tunic. Kicked through the manor gate, he staggered back to the fisherman’s cottage where he had taken up residence since coming to Ploumanach. The fisherman’s wife was kind, in her way. She had bandaged his limb, and given him an evil-tasting draught which dulled the pain. If only, Conan thought, while he nursed his throbbing wrist, he had got rid of that blasted purse. If only he had not chosen that particular day to go the manor. They’d never take him on now, and he’d never get his hands – hand – on the wench’s jewel. He’d lost that forever. Branded as a thief in the eyes of the neighbourhood, Ploumanach had nothing to offer him. How would he live? What could he do with only his left hand? There was one avenue open. Beggary.

  ***

  In August, two months after Conan’s sentence had been carried out, his arm was healing though it continued to ache. It was a dull, steady, throbbing ache, which plagued him day and night and was persistent enough to rob him of the will to look to his future. Begging, Conan discovered, was not as lucrative as peddling or spying. Soon, when he felt better, he would trudge back to Vannes, and see if he could strike up again with Count François de Roncier. In the meantime his energy had drained away, and it was all he could do to sit and hold out the hand he had left, and beg for alms.

  When he had first taken up begging, Conan had stationed himself by the inn, grey mongrel at his side; but as the days passed, he decided the village well would be a more fruitful location. It was hot, and sooner or later everyone must come to the well, whereas not everyone patronised the inn.

  There was little shade by the well, and as the flies buzzed round him, Conan hoped that it would not be an August like last year. Even here by the coast, the wind had dropped. Today, the sea shone smooth
as polished metal. The fishermen grumbled and left their sails unhoisted. They took up oars instead. But it was almost too hot to row, and the fish seemed to sense this and swam provokingly near the surface, taunting the fishermen by dancing past their boats in their shoals – a million silvery darts which were always there when the nets lay heavy in the boats, and never there when they were lowered into the shining swell. Conan gleaned all of this and more, from listening to his patrons as they drew fresh water. The habit of hoarding away all that he heard had not deserted him.

  Conan knew he was right to consider returning south where he could renew his association with Otto Malait and his lord. The beggar’s life was not for him. It sapped a man’s resources to have to rely on the charity of others.

  Hearing hoof beats on the road from Wymark manor, Conan sighed and eased himself into the best position, with his stump held out so the passers-by would be treated to a full view of his loss. He bent his chin to his chest as though he were full of shame and had repented of his crime.

  ‘Spare me a coin.’ He had perfected the beggar’s whine, pitching his voice high, so it carried far. Two riders were approaching. They had a mule on a leading rein, packed for a long journey. ‘Give a wretched man alms, I implore you. Give alms to the needy.’

  ‘Ned, dig out some money,’ a soft voice said, and recognising it, Conan tensed. It was the concubine’s daughter. Conan did not look at her, but instead lifted his eyes to her companion’s face. The horseman was the Saxon mercenary, Ned Fletcher – apparently she’d married him. Conan noted Ned Fletcher’s bulging saddle bags and the purse which dangled from his narrow, belted waist.

  The Saxon delved in his scrip. ‘Will this do?’

  Conan caught the gleam of metal and sighed. His dog whimpered.

  ‘Give the poor man more,’ the soft voice pleaded. ‘Look, he’s lost a hand.’

  ‘The man’s no doubt a thief and deserved his punishment,’ came the unsympathetic response. Conan held his breath to see if the Saxon would bend to his wife’s will. Few men did.

  ‘Nevertheless, I feel sorry for him. I want to give more.’