The Stone Rose (11 page)

Absently François refilled his glass. Le Bret was an enigma. But one thing was clear, he was single-minded; he had come in to get his back pay, and he had left with exactly what he came for – and more. ‘He’s an opportunist,’ François murmured, ‘and as tough as they come.’

He sipped his wine and, grimacing, deposited the glass on the pewter tray. The bottle had been open to the air too long; the contents had soured, and set his teeth on edge. Heading for his bed and his wife, he wondered how long Alan le Bret had been stationed outside the solar door. How much had he heard? There was no telling, but perhaps it would be prudent to despatch Malait with him on the morrow. François nodded to himself. He would charge the Norseman with finding the statue his mother coveted. He need make no mention of the gem. One could not trust routiers. The less they knew, the better.

Wondering if Eleanor would be asleep, François mounted the spiral stairs to his turret bedchamber.

T
he bottom of the fishing boat was wet with a combination of dew and seawater that soaked through cloak and breeches to Raymond’s bones. He had counted on being able to sleep on the pre-dawn trip across the bay, but his clothes were too damp, he felt cold, and to add to his miseries the Small Sea was choppy and the rocking motion of the boat gave him
mal de mer
.

‘How much longer, Edouarz?’ Raymond groaned, lying back so he could try counting stars and forget his nausea.

The closed lantern attached to the mast let out a few shreds of light – just enough to reach the face of the man at the tiller, the boat’s owner. Edouarz glanced briefly at his passenger, and bit back a grin on seeing the boy’s tight lips and greenish tinge. He tipped his head back to examine the sail of his tiny vessel. The patched canvas bellied out with the wind. ‘Half an hour, maybe longer.’

Raymond moaned. The stars danced dizzily. The lights of other fishing vessels returning home with their catch danced too. His stomach heaved.

‘Seems a long time, does it, young sir?’ Edouarz teased. Another groan. The fisherman jerked his thumb at a dark, low-lying mass on their left. ‘That’s Monk’s island,’ he announced. ‘With this wind, we’ll be at Locmariaquer in no time.’

An hour later, Raymond’s feet had been planted firmly on
terra firma
, his stomach was calmer, and he was in a better state of mind, having persuaded a carter to give him a ride as far as the dolmen. That’s where his rendezvous with the girl was.

The carter was heading inland to the market with last night’s catch of mackerel, a basket of crabs, and some shellfish. But the fish smelt high. The waggon rattled over the dirt road. Poised on the edge of the tailboard with his long legs dangling, Raymond pressed one hand tightly over his nose, but the stink was persistent and to his dismay his stomach began churning all over again. His brown tunic would never be quite the same again. How long would the reek cling to his person? Anna, the girl he was intent on meeting, might not be so ardent if he stank of rotting fish.

‘This stuff is crawling!’ Raymond yelled over the clatter of the wheels.

‘Eh?’ The carter had a solid back.

‘Edouarz has pulled the wool over your eyes with this lot,’ Raymond said. ‘Last night’s catch could not possibly smell like this.’

The carter lifted lumpy shoulders and stolidly kept eyes and face towards the road in front. His monotone voice floated back to Raymond, ‘A bargain’s a bargain.’

‘No one will buy them,’ Raymond predicted with the arrogant confidence of one who has never been reduced to eating second-rate food.

‘They will. They’re cheap, see?’

The crack of the carter’s whip was loud in the dawn hush. ‘They might pay more if they were fresh,’ Raymond said, pegging his nose.

‘Can’t afford it, young sir.’

Raymond shrugged, and kept his smile to himself. The fellow’s mind was closed and Raymond found his narrow, peasant doggedness amusing. The man had probably never changed his views since birth, and would cling to them, blindly, till Doomsday.

The waggon lurched on over a causeway whose surface was scarred with deep ruts. The sky was lightening fast, and one or two trees stood out, stark, black silhouettes against the dawn grey.

‘Have we passed the crossroads?’

‘Aye, about a mile back. We’re a stone’s throw from the farm. I’ll let you down there. The pathway to the dolmen runs off to the west.’

‘That’s a mercy. I’m bruised all over.’ Raymond winced, and tried to cushion his buttocks with more of his woollen cloak. The package his grandmother had palmed off on him rolled out and clunked against the side of the cart. Raymond wedged the statue between two baskets of fish. It was fortunate that he’d made the assignment with the girl, for his grandmother’s odd request and his own plans had dove-tailed neatly. What better place to stow her statue than in one of the ancient temples of the Old Ones? It was the perfect hiding place, the superstitious locals seldom visited them. They were frightened of rousing the anger of the old gods.

Raymond had never tried to understand his grandmother, he simply accepted her for what she was, a pious woman of venerable years. But jolting along on the waggon, he found himself wondering why Izabel wanted to hide her icon. It must be connected with the business yesterday, but he could not fathom it. ‘I must be mad,’ he muttered, ‘to fall in with her whim.’

The carter turned his head and eyed him over his shoulder. He had greasy, lank hair and his skin was pitted with pox marks. ‘Pretty is she?’ he asked, slyly.

Raymond flushed to his ears, and despite himself an image of smiling dark eyes and a warm, red mouth sprang into his mind. Anna
was
pretty. But all he said was, ‘Who?’

‘Now who’s trying to pull the wool over my eyes?’ The carter grinned. ‘I’m talking about the maid you’re meeting in the temple.’ He made an obscene gesture.

Raymond’s eyes widened. He was amazed that the man should have known, and furious that he had been so obvious. ‘By St Guirec, how–?’

The man cackled. ‘Why else would a soft young man like you be sneaking out in my cart at the crack of dawn?’

‘I’m not soft!’ Raymond cried, much stung. The man had the most infuriating grin, he itched to slap it from his face.

‘No?’ Another cackle. ‘You’re not the first to use that temple as a trysting place.’

‘I’ve gone far enough.’ Raymond jumped off the waggon as though the rough wood bit him. ‘My thanks for the ride.’ He dug a coin from his purse and flung it towards the carter.

The carter’s hand snaked out and snatched the coin from the air. His tongue clicked, the whip snapped, and the mule put on a turn of speed. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ the toneless voice asked sweetly, pitted face split in two with that spiteful grin.

‘Hell! The statue! Slow down, will you?’ Raymond ran after the waggon. A burst of wheezy laughter drifted back from the driver’s seat. ‘Jesu! Stop! Stop!’ Hurling himself at the edge of the cart, Raymond grabbed the sailcloth bundle and tumbled into the road, arms and legs flailing. ‘My thanks,’ he spat bitterly at the fast disappearing waggon.

‘Any time,’ the mocking monotone was carried to him on the early morning breeze. ‘It was a real pleasure.’

Raymond picked himself out of a pothole and eyed his soiled clothes ruefully. What wench would look twice at him now, covered in mud and smelling riper than the midden? He did not think Anna was that sweet on him – she’d probably get one whiff and run a mile. He scowled at the brow of the hill. Curse the peasant. Anna was delectable, but girls were unpredictable, mysterious creatures, and there was no telling how she would react.

Stuffing his grandmother’s bundle into his tunic, Raymond turned hopefully towards the track which led to the dolmen. Even if the wench deserted him, he’d not have made a wasted journey. He could see his grandmother’s wish fulfilled. The temple was not visited as often as the carter had implied. The Virgin would be perfectly safe there.

The hedgerows were wreathed in a light mist. The sun was breaking through it from the east, shining like a lamp viewed through a veil. The sweet, fresh morning air was a benison from heaven. Raymond drew in a lungful, lips curving with youthful optimism. Anna would
not
run a mile. He would be lucky, he could feel it. Despite the unpromising start, Raymond was certain today was going to be quite beautiful.

***

About to go downstairs to break her fast, Gwenn was tidying her pallet when she looked up to see Yolande step into her bedchamber, her travelling cloak flung about her shoulders. Fatigue had drawn and pinched her mother’s delicate features into the mould of an older woman.

‘Where’s Raymond?’ Yolande asked, fastening her cloak with a silver filigree brooch in the shape of a butterfly.

‘We’ve no idea,’ Izabel responded. ‘We know what he’s doing, but not where. He’ll be back later this morning.’

The floorboards creaked and Jean St Clair walked slowly in. Katarin had attached herself to one of his hands and was trying out her paces at her father’s side. Gwenn’s mouth fell open. This was the first time that she had known her father to have spent the whole night with her mother. Normally he slept elsewhere. It was a shallow pretence Gwenn had long suspected he kept up for her sake. Such a departure from his carefully established habit could only mean that he was profoundly concerned for them, and that he intended to protect them.

‘Good morning, ladies.’ He smiled, and released his daughter’s hands. Katarin sat down with a bump. ‘Where’s the boy?’

Yolande answered. ‘Not here.’

‘Devil blast him!’

‘I’ll thank you to remember the company you’re in, Sir Jean,’ Izabel said, throwing a meaningful look at Gwenn. ‘You’re not in an alehouse.’

‘My apologies,’ unrepentantly, Jean stroked his trim moustache, ‘but the lad would have to choose this morning of all mornings to go gallivanting. Are you sure neither of you knows where he has gone?’

Izabel folded her hands primly under her bosom. ‘He’s running an errand for me.’

Gwenn had a pretty shrewd idea where her brother had gone, for he had confided in her of his infatuation with the farmer’s daughter, and he had once let fall that they met in a dolmen near Locmariaquer. Providently, Katarin crawled into Gwenn’s line of vision, giving her something to pin her gaze on. She had never been any good at lying, and if her parents had the slightest suspicion that she knew of Raymond’s whereabouts, they would be bound to winkle it out of her.

Sinking to Katarin’s level, she offered her sister a supporting hand. ‘Good morning, sweetheart.’ Katarin grabbed her fingers and clung like a limpet. The unformalised nature of the relationship between her mother and father did not mean that Raymond’s affair with a farmer’s daughter would be taken lightly. Yolande had taken pains to instil into her son that love was not a game, and Gwenn was in no doubt that her brother would be severely reprimanded if his secret were discovered. Her father’s views on the subject, like Raymond’s, were ambivalent – typically male. While Gwenn did not condemn either her brother or her father for their opinions, Gwenn, by virtue of her female sex, had ideas that were closer to her mother’s. What sensible woman could afford to think otherwise? It was women who were ultimately responsible for the consequences of casual affairs. Gwenn had always been puzzled that her mother should have turned to St Clair in the first place. She must have been desperate to help Izabel. Or deeply in love. Or both.

But it was not her mother’s history that was at issue here. Should Raymond’s secret come out, he would be in trouble, and whatever Gwenn might think of Raymond’s dalliance with the farmer’s daughter, it was his affair, and Raymond must not suffer because she was a poor liar.

St Clair spoke briskly, ‘We’re leaving Vannes today.’

‘Leaving?’ Gwenn gasped. ‘Today?’

‘Aye. I suspect de Roncier was behind yesterday’s incident, but as none of his men were seen here, we cannot prove anything. Personally, I doubt he’s audacious enough to move openly against us, but to put everyone’s minds at rest, we’ll be leaving this morning.’

‘This
morning
?’ Gwenn echoed.

‘Where are we going?’ her grandmother demanded.

‘My manor at Kermaria.’

Gwenn’s grandmother blinked, and sank onto her bed, expression dazed. ‘Kermaria? In truth, you’re taking us there?’

Jean smiled. ‘Aye.’

Izabel’s mouth worked. ‘Oh, Jean,’ her voice was weak. ‘You’re acknowledging the children? Openly?’

He inclined his head. ‘It won’t affect their legitimate status I’m afraid, but–’

‘But for them to have a father,’ Izabel’s aged eyes were moist with tears. ‘Oh, Jean, how I have prayed for this day.’ She was so overcome, she made an attempt at humour. ‘We...we’ll almost be respectable.’

‘When are we leaving?’ Gwenn stared at her father, unable to believe in this new turn of events. Gwenn only had one friend in Vannes, Irene Brasher, it was not as if she would be leaving anyone behind. But for all that her family had been outcasts, Vannes was all she knew. She had only been outside the town walls twice as far as she remembered, and Vannes was her world. Was her father really acknowledging her? Could they really be going to his manor? Gwenn had only a vague notion of what a manor was like. Was it a large house? A
very
large house? Was it made of wood, like this one? Or stone?

‘The sooner we leave the better,’ Yolande said firmly. ‘I’m ready. Gwenn, I want you to help your Grandmother pack her things.’

Izabel did not have much in the way of personal possessions, none of them did; the packing would not take long. ‘What about all our pots and cooking things?’

‘Forget them,’ Sir Jean said. ‘There’s a cookhouse at Kermaria. And a cook. You won’t have to cook again. Though you’ll have to learn to keep the cook in order! I had planned for us all to leave shortly,’ he went on, ‘but as that young scoundrel Raymond is absent, your mother and I will go on ahead. You can follow later, and tell Raymond, when he appears.’ He reached out and enfolded Gwenn’s hands in his. ‘I’ll detail a couple of men to act as your escort. They’ll be here at midday. I want you to arrive in state.’ And in one piece, he added, mentally. ‘Do you think you can manage, my dear?’