The Stone Rose (19 page)

Gwenn nodded. ‘You’re a beast,’ she said, with a grin.

Raymond grinned back, unrepentant. ‘I know.’

***

A month slipped by. Alan’s leg was all but healed and his splints were removed. Yolande and Gwenn decided that the time was ripe for them to set the wheels in motion.

It had rained all night and ragged, wind-bitten clouds chased across the sky, but Gwenn was determined that this was the day she would ride to Locmariaquer and reclaim her statue. A few paltry raindrops were not going to stop her.

Despite Raymond saying that he would collect the Stone Rose, he had not yet done so, nor had he taken her riding. Today, Gwenn’s laggardly brother was going to be made to fulfil his promise. Gwenn began wheedling as the family was eating their early morning crust. The men-at-arms were on a separate table, nearer the door. ‘Raymond, may I ride with you today?’

‘No,’ Raymond mumbled, through a mouthful of bread.

Prepared for this response, Gwenn edged along the bench till her shoulder touched his and dimpled up at him. ‘What excuse have you today, Raymond? Yesterday you were too busy hunting; the day before that you’d a wager with Denis; the day before that you were writing for Sir Jean...’ She let her voice trail off, noticing the pebble grey eyes of Alan le Bret resting on her. Turning her back on the mercenary, she smiled at her brother and wondered what excuse he’d produce today.

‘My apologies, Gwenn,’ Raymond flashed her a smile that she recognised was as charming and meaningless as hers for him. ‘I have been busy. Sir Jean lacks a clerk, and I’ve been helping out. I’ll take you tomorrow, I swear it.’

‘Always tomorrow,’ Gwenn muttered.

‘What’s wrong with today?’ Yolande said, entering the conversation.

‘I’m to help Sir Jean with plans for the guardhouse,’ Raymond informed them importantly. ‘It’s much more to my taste than the clerk’s task I’ve been lost in, and I want to prove my worth, else Sir Jean will have me play the clerk for ever.’

Yolande and Gwenn exchanged dismayed glances. They had hoped that between them they might have persuaded Raymond to go to Locmariaquer.

Jean set his cup down. ‘I do need Raymond, Gwenn,’ he confirmed, wiping droplets of wine from his moustache with his sleeve. ‘I’m planning radical alterations to the fortifications. He will assist.’

Gwenn let slip a groan of disappointment, reached for a loaf, and broke off a large chunk. She wanted action, and today. ‘He promised
me
he’d fetch Grandmama’s statue nigh on a month ago.’ Her dark brows formed a discontented line. ‘The men in this household only honour their promises when they are made to other men. Women don’t count, do they?’

Jean’s eyes filled with reproach. ‘Don’t be ungrateful. You are allowed your say far more than most young ladies.’

Gwenn bristled until she read affection in her father’s expression, and then she grinned. ‘I’m a nuisance, I know. But I would like the Stone Rose back. Raymond swore to Grandmother that he’d see it in my hands, and that was six weeks ago.’

‘She has a point, my love,’ Yolande said, taking her part.

‘I don’t know what all the whinging is about,’ Raymond threw in. ‘Not only is it worthless, but it’s a dreadful, ugly carving.’

‘I agree.’ Alan le Bret’s eyes were boring holes in Gwenn’s shoulder-blades. ‘But since it belonged to Grandmama, I would like it.’

‘It’s a small thing Gwenn asks, my love, and it means so much to her.’

‘Where is the damned thing, Raymond?’ Jean demanded.

‘Locmariaquer.’

Gwenn sat very straight.

‘Not too far,’ Jean observed. ‘But, no, Gwenn, I cannot spare Raymond.’ His daughter’s spine sagged, and he winked indulgently at her. ‘But if
mademoiselle
has set her heart on it, one of the grooms can take her.’

In a flash, Alan hoisted himself upright and limped across. ‘I’ll accompany your daughter, Sir Jean.’ Gwenn covered her mouth with her hand to hide a delighted smile. ‘I’m not much use as a soldier yet, but the exercise will put some strength back into my leg.’

‘No, Jean!’ Yolande grasped her lover’s hand. It was no part of her design that Gwenn should ride off alone with the routier.

Jean tugged doubtfully at his moustache.

‘If your son furnishes me with the direction, I shall be pleased to escort your daughter,’ Alan pressed, pleasantly.

Gwenn turned a blind eye to the frantic looks Yolande was firing across at her. ‘Oh, please, sir, let me go. I’m longing for a ride.’

‘She’s not that good on a horse, Papa,’ Raymond said, dampeningly. He could see that his mother was concerned, and he did not trust the fellow either.

‘I doubt that I’d be that skilled a horseman myself at the moment,’ Alan admitted, ruefully. ‘I’ll take it quietly, Sir Jean. I’ll look after your daughter.’

‘Oh, let me go with him, sir.’ Gwenn smiled at Yolande. ‘It will be alright, Mama. I can manage.’

‘But Gwenn...’ Yolande lifted a despairing hand, and words failed her. She was not prepared for this contingency. It had never occurred to her that her daughter might ride off with Alan le Bret, but without betraying the whole, she could say nothing. And Gwenn, dreadful child, knew that.

‘Please, sir.’

Jean did not want to spend the morning discussing trifles. Time was pressing. He relented. ‘Very well. Be back before sunset.’

‘My thanks, sir!’ Gwenn skipped round the table and hugged him. ‘My thanks!’

Yolande said nothing. Her headstrong daughter was too sure of herself for her own good. Sweet Jesus, look after her, Yolande prayed, for my hands are tied.

***

For Alan, the ride to Locmariaquer was purgatory.

Surprisingly, the girl was not a thorn in his side. She did not assault his ears with ceaseless chattering; on the contrary, she rode placidly next to him, only occasionally throwing him the odd comment. Nor did she seem to expect any response from him. For these small mercies Alan was grateful. His leg, however, was another matter. For the first half-hour he was able to persuade himself that it was back to normal; in the next half-hour it had begun to throb; and by the time they were into the second hour of the ride, he was gritting his teeth and could barely keep his mind on their route. As they progressed, his pain intensified. Like a snail retreating into the shell that protects it, he shrank deeper and deeper into his capuchon and kept his face from the girl.

Her saddle creaked as she turned to him. ‘I can smell the sea. Do you think we’re almost there?’ Her father, probably with her welfare in mind, had mounted her on a lazy nag that needed some encouragement to make it move at all, and she had snapped off a birch stick for a goad.

Alan emerged unwillingly from his hood. ‘This path hugs the coast. We should be very close. Your brother mentioned a stone farmhouse.’

‘We past one half a mile back.’

Alan swore. ‘Did we? I confess my mind was wandering.’

The look she gave him was understanding. ‘Mine wasn’t, my leg isn’t sore. Raymond described a lane which runs to the left between two hawthorn hedges.’ She used her birch whip to point. ‘Do you think that’s it?’

‘Could be.’ Alan guided his horse to where road and lane met. The ground was soft and speckled with fallen blossom that great hoofs had pounded into the mud. A wind had sprung up, and a stormcock was singing its heart out from its perch among the flowering hawthorn. Wondering what they were wandering into, Alan eyed first the ground and then the sky. One way or another, a storm was brewing.

‘What’s the matter?’

She was an observant girl. ‘The mud’s all churned up.’

‘It probably rained here this morning,’ she suggested, helpfully. ‘It did at home, early–’

Alan cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand. ‘I’m sure that it rained, but look at those tracks. Many horses have passed this way.’

‘So?’

He lifted his head, unaware that the grey of his eyes matched the pewter-coloured clouds massing on the horizon. ‘The weather’s the least of our problems, mistress. Doesn’t it strike you as strange that so many horses should have come this way this morning?’

Gwenn Herevi gave the much-furrowed ground her full attention. ‘I thought the path led only to the Old Ones’ temples. Raymond said no one ever came here.’

‘Exactly.’ Alan grasped her horse’s bridle.

‘What are you doing?’

Alan swung stiffly from his saddle and led their horses into the hawthorn-edged lane, favouring his good leg.

Gwenn wondered what he was planning to do, and when he would show his true colours.

‘I advise a careful approach.’ He found a gap in the rough hedge and dived through it, dragging the animals after him.

The blossom-laden branch of a wild pear drooped over the hawthorn, and Gwenn doubled over to avoid being scratched. They found themselves on the edge of a series of peasants’ strips. The spring planting had been done and already the young shoots were sprouting, fresh and green.

‘Get down, mistress. I’m leaving the horses here and continuing on foot. I can’t afford to take any risks. Your father would have my hide if you got hurt.’

‘Why should anything happen?’ Le Bret had not struck Gwenn as a man to sound the alarm unnecessarily, and his wariness frightened her. Was it genuine, or was it a blind to mask some darker design? She had decided to risk riding with the mercenary on impulse and now she wished she had been less rash. Would he hurt her? She did not think so, not when she had mended his leg. She looked at him, but as ever the swarthy face was closed. Her best course was to go along with him and make sure she did not rouse his suspicions. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Who do you think is up there?’

His brows bunched together. ‘God knows. But you can be sure it’s no meeting of peasant farmers. You can see from the prints that these animals have been shod; and judging from the size of the hoofs, a fair number are warhorses.’

Gwenn slid from her mare’s back, and the animal began nosing about in the hedge for the palest, most tender hawthorn shoots. ‘Perhaps we should wait until they have gone?’

‘No.’ Alan was set on discovering what was going on. The knowledge might have a commercial value. The concubine’s daughter would think the worst of him soon enough when he relieved her of the jewel, but illogically, he felt uneasy confessing that he couldn’t afford to ignore something which might prove a source of income in the future. A gust of wind slapped him in the face. In different circumstances, a man could grow fond of a girl like her. ‘I’m for going on now, mistress,’ he said, curtly. ‘Before the storm blows us away. Your brother told me where to look.’ He turned on his heel.

She clutched the hem of his cotte, or over-tunic. ‘What about me?’

‘You’d best stay here.’

‘You’ll come back? You’d not leave me here?’

‘You’ve got the horses.’ He smiled, lopsidedly. ‘Don’t you trust me, mistress?’

The foliage rustled, and Gwenn was alone. She did not believe he had the slightest intention of returning for her. Once he had his hands on the statue, he’d be off faster than the wind – or perhaps not quite that fast, she amended, remembering his stiff leg. But then, as he himself had pointed out, she did have the horses. Maybe he would be back.

Pondering her next move, she ducked behind the hawthorn. Time crawled by. The wind piled up more clouds, and the thin strip of blue sky shrank. Someone sneezed. Someone sneezed? The sound must have come from the direction of the dolmen, but with the wind whistling round her ears, it was hard to be certain. A second sneeze made her jump out of her skin. It came from the other side of the hedge. Dropping the horses’ reins, Gwenn peered through the branches.

Another rider was approaching the dolmen. He was bound to see Alan le Bret. She strained to see who it was, and a cold shiver shot down to her toes. It was the Norseman. He was wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and his pale, deathly eyes were fixed on the waves of mud on the path, as though they were a knotty puzzle he’d like to unravel. Had he been trailing her and le Bret? He reined in level with her.

Her mother wanted le Bret convinced that the gem had been sold, and Gwenn had been confident that she could achieve this safely. Le Bret might be motivated by self-interest, he might be after easy pickings, but he was no murderer, she was sure. He was not as base as he pretended. But
this
character, she sensed, would be capable of anything.

The Viking’s mount, a scrawny grey, sniffed the wind. Gwenn froze, realising with a sick shock that the animal could in all probability smell her horses. Her mare’s nostrils flared. ‘St Gildas, no!’ She lunged for her mare’s mouth, but she was too late. Her mare’s whinny of welcome coincided with the first crack of thunder and the first drops of rain. The Viking’s light eyes slowly traversed the ruts in the lane. The thunder had drowned out her mare’s neigh. He cast a puzzled look up the lane and pulled on his beard. He
had
been following their tracks.

Thankful the jumble of hoof prints prevented him from seeing they had gone through the hedge, Gwenn did not stop to consider whether she could trust Alan le Bret. She turned and hared up the field. Another deep rumble rolled across the heavens. She struggled on, following a course parallel to the one le Bret had taken, on the other side of the hedge. The wind drove rain into her face so hard, raindrops felt like hailstones. A fence of crude willow hurdles blocked her path, Gwenn’s gaze skimmed its length. There was no opening. She must get through and find le Bret. The corner then, where hedge married fence. Oblivious of scratching briars, Gwenn forced her way through. Her feet skated on wet grass. A green mound rose before her and, feet slipping and sliding, she scrambled up it. She saw stone steps, a stone lintel, and a muddy entrance passage.

‘Sweet Mary, help me. Let it be the right one.’ And she tumbled into the Old Ones’ temple.

S
he found herself in a dank chamber that was a quiet and as cold as a grave. The lump in her throat was as big as a gull’s egg. ‘Alan...Alan le Bret? Are you there?’ Outside, the storm whirled, but inside, there was only a thick, black, ominous quiet. ‘Le Bret?’ She was alone. She bit her lip. She had picked the wrong dolmen and was caught like a rat in a trap. If the Viking had seen her, and followed her...