The Stone Rose (31 page)

Waldin directed his gaze to the crop of sun-ripened weeds sprouting in the waterless moat. He found it hard to take Jean’s worries to heart. He had not survived fifteen years on the circuit to die in a petty squabble over this desiccated bog. ‘I can see rye growing down there,’ he observed, before he could check himself.

Anger flashed briefly in his brother’s eyes. ‘I’m being serious, Waldin,’ Jean snapped, for the heat was getting to him too. ‘If you’ve no sensible suggestions to make, you can go back to Raymond. Crossing swords with boys seems to be all you’re fit for these days.’

‘Someone’s got to teach your lad,’ Waldin said, equably. ‘He’s got the finesse of a butcher. Why, that Saxon lad shows more promise than your son.’

‘Ned Fletcher? I thought he’d shape up.’

‘Aye. He’s been exercising hard. A strong lad, and keen. And the questions he asks! You could do worse than make him your captain. I find Fletcher useful when demonstrating the passes to Raymond. I don’t know who taught your son before me, Jean, but–’

‘It was difficult in Vannes,’ Jean put in stiffly, guiltily aware that he had only supplied priests to see his son was literate, and that he had himself to blame for Raymond’s military deficiencies.

‘Aye, well, I came home none too soon. Fortunately, Raymond has a natural aptitude with horses, but as for his swordplay,’ Waldin clucked in disgust and then shut his mouth abruptly, for Raymond was racing towards them, raising a cloud of dust.

‘Papa! Papa!’ Raymond skidded to a halt amid a hail of pebbles. ‘It’s Mama! The baby! You’d best come at once!’

The brothers exchanged glances. ‘Early isn’t it?’ Waldin asked.

‘Yes, but my wife’s done this before. She knows what to do. Is the midwife called, Raymond?’

‘Aye. Come quickly, Papa!’ Raymond plucked his father’s sleeve.

Shaking his head at his son’s impetuousness, Jean gave him a complacent smile. ‘No need to hurry, my boy. Babies take their time.’

‘But, Papa–’

‘I’m coming.’ Jean draped his arm companionably round his son’s shoulders and steered him down the road. ‘We’ll wait in the hall, then we can be the first to know whether the child’s a boy or a girl.’

‘I hope it’s a girl.’ Raymond muttered at the dusty ground, and the tension in his body reached his father through the arm about his shoulders.

‘Raymond? What’s the matter?’ When Raymond stared blindly at a magpie’s feather lying by the road, Jean gave him a friendly hug. ‘You’re not sulking, are you?’

Raymond raised hard green eyes. ‘I hope the brat’s a girl.’

‘These thoughts are unworthy of you.’ Jean spoke gently. ‘If you are jealous, you have no need to be. If the child is a boy it will not affect my relationship with you. You are my firstborn. No one can take that away from you. This new child, boy or girl, cannot affect that.’

‘You hope for a boy,’ Raymond said, mouth one sulky line.

St Clair saw no advantage in lying to his son. ‘Aye, but boy or girl, I will love the child.’ He gave his son an affectionate squeeze. ‘I do need an heir.’

‘An heir!’ Raymond flung off his father’s arm and thumped his chest. ‘What’s so wrong with me? Why can’t
I
be your heir?’

Jean drew in a sharp breath. A portion of him could sympathise with Raymond, but he could not excuse him. It was the way of the world that legitimate children should inherit. Raymond knew that. Even legitimacy was no security, for estates could not be broken up, and it was common for the eldest, legitimate son to take all, while younger, legitimate children must fend for themselves. That was why Waldin had chosen to carve his way through the lists. Waldin had not let the fact that he had been a penniless second son sour his nature. It had been the making of him. He had understood that a small estate could not be sliced up like so much bread.

‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Raymond. You know the reason.’

‘Aye! It’s on account of my birth, and the fault’s not mine. The fault is yours, Papa, yours! Why didn’t you marry Mother before I was born?’ He groaned his frustration. ‘Why did you leave it so late?’

A heart-wrenching cry floated out on the hot, motionless air. The three men froze mid-stride.

Waldin laid a blunt hand on his nephew’s back. ‘Have a care for your lady mother, will you?’ Another harrowing cry had the hoary, unvanquished champion of many a battle wincing like a green page. ‘Where the hell is that midwife?’

In the yard, Ned Fletcher and Roger de Herion, Jean’s squire, had been fencing in their shirtsleeves. The two were at rest now, still breathing heavily, eyes trained on the high solar window. Waldin was unable to prevent himself running critical eyes over the pair of them. Fletcher, as usual, had his stance right, but Waldin grimaced when his eyes reached his brother’s squire. ‘De Herion,’ he barked, ‘what did I tell you about keeping your fingers
behind
the guard?’

Roger started. ‘But, sir, we’ve finished. We’re at ease.’

‘If your sword’s unsheathed, hold it properly. God’s blood, it’s a weapon not a walking stick! You could learn by watching Fletcher. He’s at ease, but he’s ready for anything that might come at him. You should be, too.’

Jean had reached the steps. Tight-lipped, he indicated that his son should precede him into the hall.

But Raymond was still angry. ‘I shall pray for a girl, Father. And you’d best do the same, because if it’s a boy I’ll not let it take precedence over me. Burn me to ashes, but I’ll make its life hell. If this babe is a boy, sir, he’ll never succeed to your–’

‘Enough!’ Jean barked. ‘We’ll talk later, you and I.’ He leaped the steps, two at a time.

Raymond glowered after him, but he was aware of his uncle’s lowered brows.

‘You can thank the saint that guards you,’ Waldin said, ‘that your father is too preoccupied to heed you. I’d think twice before I’d voice such a threat again, if I were you.’

Raymond scowled and barged into the hall.

‘Mama’s crying,’ Katarin said, rushing towards her father almost before he had lifted his boot over the top step. There was a hush in the hall, for everyone was listening to the scurrying feet, thumps and groans in the bedchamber. Katarin knew something mysterious was going on, something secret. She was used to being present in most important events in the household, and after she had summoned Klara she had run back to her mother. But Gwenn had waved her away as though she had no more business in her mother’s chamber than a fly on a butcher’s slab. ‘Is it a secret, Papa?’ she asked. Katarin liked secrets, but only if they were hers to share. Her father stared at the door at the foot of the stairs and did not respond. As he often kept his distance, Katarin was unperturbed. She jammed her thumb into her mouth and kept her eyes hooked onto her father’s face. She longed for a cuddle, but the most she could hope for was not to be sent away. Instinct told her that today, if she was quiet as a mouse, her father might welcome her presence.

Hesitantly, for Katarin’s keen eyes observed that the skin was drawn tightly across her father’s features as it did when he was angry, the little girl touched her father’s hand. She removed her thumb from her mouth. ‘Papa?’ Her father inclined his head, and his lips shaped a smile that even her child’s eyes could see was counterfeit. ‘Papa? Aren’t you going to see if Mama is getting better?’

Jean’s expression softened, and to Katarin’s delight he scooped her up in his arms and hugged her. ‘No, my little blossom, I am not.’

Pleased with this contact, Katarin beamed, and when her father went to the trestle and sat down with her on his knee, her joy was complete. ‘Why not, Papa?’ she asked, wriggling with pleasure.

‘Because, sweet girl, we have to wait.’

‘It
is
a secret!’ The smile on her father’s face was becoming more like a proper smile with every second that passed.

‘In a way, it is,’ he agreed.

Raymond stumped up to a bench, accompanied by Waldin. Ned and Roger de Herion came in, shrugging on their tunics. They made straight for the ale jugs.

Katarin put her mouth to her father’s ear. ‘Do you know what the secret is?’

Her father rolled his eyes mysteriously. ‘I do.’

‘Tell me, Papa. Tell me the secret.’

Emulating his daughter, Jean put his lips to her tiny, pink ear. ‘Your mother is having a baby.’

Katarin gave another excited wriggle, her unformed child’s features composed themselves, and her question flew straight as an arrow to the nub of the matter. ‘Will it be a boy or a girl, Papa?’

Jean shot his firstborn a look, but Raymond was glooming into a wine cup. ‘That, my flower, is the biggest secret of all. Only God knows the answer to that question. We will know soon.’

‘How soon?’ Katarin was wondering what her father’s moustache felt like, and whether she dared to stroke it. From the solar there came a strangled shriek that was more animal than human. ‘Mama!’

Jean squeezed his youngest daughter, and as her arms twined round his neck, he wondered bleakly who was comforting whom.

‘It won’t take long, will it?’ Katarin asked. Her father’s moustache tickled her cheek.

‘Let’s pray not, for your mother’s sake.’ And observing that his daughter’s eyes were more green than brown, the knight asked, ‘How old are you, Katarin?’

‘Five, Papa,’ she said, proudly.

‘Five, eh?’ Katarin was five years old, and he had only just noticed what a pretty colour her eyes were. He resolved to try and spend more time with her. ‘You’ll be able to help with the baby now you’re so big.’

Ned was breaking a crust on the lower trestle with an expression of studied neutrality on his face.

‘Fletcher!’ Raymond bawled. ‘Throw that wine jar over, will you?’

Ned looked startled to receive such a peremptory summons, as well he might, for he was no was no manservant, but good-naturedly he did as he was requested.

‘Here, Fletcher,’ pointedly ignoring his elders, Raymond kicked out a bench for Ned, ‘Do the honours for me, would you, and pour one for yourself? I like drinking in
congenial
company.’

Ned looked at Jean, who tiredly indicated that he could take a place at their board.

‘I know a prayer,’ Katarin chirped up.

‘Do you, sweet?’ Pressing a kiss on Katarin’s downy cheek, Jean disposed the child more comfortably in his arms. ‘You say it quietly to yourself, while I talk to Uncle Waldin. Your prayer will help Mama.’

The hazel eyes filled with pleasure and, thumb in mouth, Katarin began mumbling the Paternoster.

‘Obliging child,’ Sir Jean murmured, realising from his daughter’s glazed expression that she would be asleep in a few minutes.

‘You’ve another lovely maid in the making there, Jean,’ he commented.

‘Aye.’ Jean steered the conversation away from children. ‘I hear that France is planning a Grand Tourney the like of which has never been seen.’

Depositing brawny arms on the table, Waldin leaned forward. ‘When’s it to be?’

‘Next year, after Lammastide.’

The wide shoulders drooped. ‘I’d hoped it would be sooner than that. Where will it be?’

‘I’m not sure. Paris, I think.’

‘Paris,’ Waldin murmured.

‘I thought you’d retired, Waldin,’ Jean teased.

The champion gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘So did I. I thought I was being very clever saving my skin before I got too old, but I confess I miss the circuit. You’ve no idea what it can be like, Jean. The noise. The excitement. The horses feel it too. They know, Jean.’

‘Do they like it?’ Ned cut in.

‘What? The horses? Oh, aye. They like it alright. You should see them champing at their bits before the baton falls.’ Waldin flushed, the force of his enthusiasm embarrassed him. ‘It’s hard to convey how I feel.’

‘It’s in your blood,’ his brother said.

‘Aye. It’s a fever that’s got into my blood. And now I’m home. I’m old enough to know better, I’ve enough money in my scrip to last several lifetimes, and good lads to pass my knowledge onto,’ he jerked his head at his nephew and Ned, ‘I should be content.’

‘Will you attend the tournament?’ Ned’s blue eyes were bright with interest.

Waldin hoisted heavy shoulders. ‘Who knows? A year’s a long time, Fletcher. Maybe I will go, but I’m sadly out of practise.’

‘I’d love to go,’ Ned said.

Waldin smiled a smile of complete understanding. ‘Perhaps I’ll ask my brother to give you leave, and you could act as my squire.’

‘Would you?’ Delight shone from every line on Ned’s face.

‘I might, if you continue to improve the way you’re doing at the moment.’

‘Thank you, sir. Sir Waldin, I’ve been wanting to ask you...it’s about swords...’

‘Go on, lad.’

‘I was hoping you’d explain why Damascened swords are prized so.’

‘Damascened swords, eh? Excellent in single combat, but they’re of no use in a mêlée. I don’t recall mentioning Damascened swords to you, Fletcher.’

‘You didn’t, sir. But last time I ran an errand to the armourer, I overheard his conversation with another customer. They were extolling the virtues of Damascened blades.’

‘Damascened swords first came over from the East,’ Waldin was happy to explain. ‘There’s no denying they will carry an edge no other sword can take, and they’re have a flexibility I’ve yet to see in another sword. But they’re too light for the tournies. A knight needs a sword with more clout in a mêlée.’

‘How are they made, sir?’

‘In simple terms, the sword smith beats out the steel over and over, before folding it back on itself. Then he starts the process all over. It’s a very skilled and lengthy business.’

‘Expensive, I should think,’ Ned said.

‘It is that.’ Waldin grinned. ‘Only princes and dukes can afford them.’

‘Could the heavier swords be made to take a similar edge?’

Here, Fletcher,’ Raymond plucked peevishly at Ned’s tunic, ‘you’re supposed to be talking to me.’

The excitement vanished from Ned’s face as swiftly as though someone had snuffed a candle out. ‘My apologies, Master Raymond.’

‘Pour me more wine.’

Lifting the flagon, Ned looked across it at Waldin. ‘I’ll hold you to your promise, sir,’ he said, earnestly. ‘I’ll keep my nose to the grindstone in order to be your squire.’