The Stone Rose (42 page)

Prior Hubert frowned. ‘Brother? I was under the impression that the infant was your son.’

‘No, Father. He’s my brother.’

‘Is this young man your husband?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Bear with me, my child, while I get this clear in my mind. You say your father is Sir Jean St Clair?’

‘Was. My father has been murdered,’ Gwenn said, and bit her lip to stop it trembling.

The prior’s voice gentled. ‘Forgive me for not realising sooner, mistress, but I could not make out your features in the murk. Accept my sympathies for your loss.’

‘Th..thank you, Father.’

‘If this young man is not your husband, who is he?’

‘Ned...Ned is...was... Papa’s captain.’

A pause. ‘It won’t do,’ Prior Hubert murmured. Truly God was testing this poor girl more than he tested most. ‘It won’t do at all.’

‘Father?’

The prior met her gaze. ‘Thinking you husband and wife, I deemed it safer for you to remain in the cell awhile.’

Katarin whimpered.

‘No, Father. My sister is frightened.’

‘Your father’s enemies might return to Kermaria via the monastery,’ the prior pointed out, ‘and you cannot outrun them.’

‘They might,’ Ned agreed. ‘It’s most likely they’ll have hidden their horses nearby, and this is the clearest track.’

‘I want Katarin out of here, Ned. It’s not healthy, and the poor child hasn’t said a word since we left Kermaria.’

Prior Hubert’s crook rapped on the shutter. He was determined to find out what God’s will was for these two, but the veil seemed unusually thick today. St Clair’s Captain was obviously a foreigner. Could he be trusted? ‘Young man? Do you have a...ah...what is the term? A strategy?’

‘Aye, Father. Before Sir Jean died, he instructed me to escort Gwenn and the children to kinsfolk in the north.’

‘And the name of these kinsfolk?’

Helplessly, Ned looked to Gwenn.

‘Wymark, Father,’ Gwenn said. ‘They have a manor at Ploumanach.’

‘Mmm.’ The prior glanced at the length of the shadows to assess the hour. By rights he should have finished reciting the morning office, but the plight of Jean’s St Clair’s offspring was no light matter. Prime would have to wait. He would do a penance for this later. The two faces in the cell were white like twin moons. Could he allow Jean St Clair’s offspring to put their lives in the hands of this young man? Were his intentions good or bad? ‘The name Wymark rings a faint bell,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Mistress Gwenn, how well do you know your father’s captain?’

‘Very well, Prior Hubert. But what–?’

The prior lifted a silencing hand to the opening. ‘Calm, daughter. I seek to help you. Do you have faith in your father’s captain? Is he an honourable man?’ The prior observed how intently the captain awaited Gwenn Herevi’s verdict. He had open blue eyes and they were filled with the most blatant longing, and a pinch of fear. Fear of what? Rejection?

‘Trust Ned?’ Gwenn sounded indignant. ‘Of course I do! Ned has more honour and nobility in his little finger than some great lords have in their entire bodies.’

Pleased, Prior Hubert inclined his tonsured head. He was beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel, and tentatively groped towards it. ‘You are confident that...er...Ned has your best interests at heart, my daughter?’

‘I am.’

‘Do you
like
him?’ Prior Hubert was a realist. Bastard as Gwenn Herevi was, her chance of finding happiness had been low while her father lived. And now, with Jean St Clair killed, she would have little to look forward to. A flush had washed over the captain’s cheeks. He was gnawing his lower lip, and his eyes were pinned on Gwenn with an adoration Prior Hubert deemed best reserved for one’s patron saint. On second thoughts, perhaps not. Ned’s look of longing was more carnal than chaste. The prior’s feeling was that the lad loved the girl and would see them all safely to their relatives.

God in his wisdom had directed the young couple’s feet to St Félix-in-the-Wood. If the prior saw them married, Gwenn Herevi would bear a new name. He could help her wipe out her parents’ sins, and start afresh. But though the prior was eager for the matter to be neatly resolved, he would not marry them if Gwenn Herevi had no liking for the lad. Patiently he waited for her answer. Her dark brows, he saw, had lowered. She had pride, considering she was a bastard, and she resented being manipulated.

‘Like Ned, Father?’ Her chin tightened. She might be a pretty and dainty maid, but Prior Hubert could see she could be trouble if she put her mind to it. She threw a smile at Ned, whose cheeks were as red as a poppy. ‘I like him very much, but when will you let us out of this dismal hole, Father?’

‘I apologise for the poor quality of the accommodation,’ Prior Hubert responded dryly, ‘but I fear it would be incautious to release you sooner than dawn tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? No, Father! We can’t spend a night in here! Have pity on my sister. And what about Philippe?’

‘I’ll release you now, on one condition.’

‘Anything,’ Gwenn said.

Prior Hubert drew in a breath. ‘I’ll release you if you’ll marry this young man.’

She gaped. ‘M...marry Ned?’

‘Sir Jean would not rest in peace, if I permitted you to chase about the Duchy with–’

‘But Ned told you, Papa commanded him to take us north!’

‘I remember. And that merely strengthens my resolve to have you married. He would not have entrusted his children to this young man, if he did not think him worth–’

‘But, Father,’ honesty compelled Ned to butt in at this point, ‘Sir Jean did trust me, but he would not countenance an alliance.’

Gwenn was lost in a tangle of emotions too entwined for Solomon to unravel, but she did know she felt strong affection for Ned. Perhaps she did love him. At any rate, she did not want to lose him as she had lost everyone else in her life. After all that had happened that morning, she could barely think, but if she married Ned, she would always have a friend. And she
must
get out of this cell...

She thrust Ned aside. ‘I agree with you, Prior Hubert. I’ll marry Ned, if he’ll have me.’

‘But, mistress,’ Ned objected, ‘remember how Sir Jean–’

‘Not another word, Ned. I’m happy to marry you.’

‘B...but–’

‘I’m going to my devotions, my children.’ The prior could see that Ned’s objections might take some time to overrule. ‘And while I am gone, consider my proposal.’

‘Proposal!’ Ned blurted. ‘It’s rank bribery! You know Mistress Gwenn wants her sister out of here.’

Prior Hubert’s eyes were cool. ‘Bribery? No, my son. Prudence? Perhaps. Consider how Mistress Gwenn might be treated by relatives less tolerant, and...er...partial than her father.’

‘I don’t need time to consider,’ Gwenn said, with a sidelong glance at the silent Katarin. ‘I’ll marry Ned this instant. Only, please, get us out of this pit.’

Prior Hubert relented. ‘Very well. Brothers Dominig and Marzin will fetch sledgehammers. Stand clear of the wall.’

‘We will,’ Gwenn smiled. ‘Thank you, Father.’ Prior Hubert walked off.

‘Mistress Gwenn, you cannot marry me.’

‘I can.’

‘No. It...it’s disparagement, mistress.’

‘Disparagement...pooh.’ Gwenn dismissed disparagement with a click of her fingers.

‘It
is
disparagement,’ Ned said. ‘Your father would not be pleased. Don’t you recall how angry he was when–?’

‘I remember, Ned. But Papa is dead. Circumstances have changed. Besides, he trusted you. He charged you with seeing us to Ploumanach.’

‘I’ll see you safely there without you having to marry me.’ Ned knew such an opportunity would never present itself again, but he could not take advantage of Gwenn’s vulnerability. His skin scorched. ‘You know what I feel for you, Mistress Gwenn. But you are safe with me. I’ll not touch you.’

‘Shut up, Ned. The monks are about to break this cell open. I’ve said that I’m marrying you, and there’s an end to it.’

Ned swallowed. ‘You’ll hate me...’

She laid a hand on his. ‘Hate you? Never. I need you to marry me.’

‘You
need
me to marry you?’ Ned stammered, struck by this original idea.

‘Think, Ned. Prior Hubert is right. If you don’t marry me, what kind of reception will I have when we reach Ploumanach? When I arrive, a bastard and unwed, tongues will wag.’

‘I’ll spear the first man who besmirches your honour!’

‘In this world, bastard daughters have no honour,’ Gwenn pointed out gently. ‘Hear me out. I don’t know if my relatives are rich or not. It might be difficult for them when I arrive with Katarin and Philippe both needing support. We’ll be the poor relations, for we’ll have no money. Do you think my kin will greet us with open arms?’

‘They’ll take you in,’ Ned said, sounding less than sure.

‘They’ll take the children in. But me?’ Gwenn shook her head. ‘I’ll be an embarrassment. They’ll want rid of me. Either they’ll compel me to marry some pock-marked merchant I’d have to be grateful to the end of my days,’ she gave a strained laugh, ‘or else they’ll force me into a nunnery, where all unwanted women go. Do you want that for me, Ned?’

Ned stared at her, his heart too full for words.

‘So if you don’t mind, Ned, I’d rather marry you.’

‘You don’t love me.’

She hesitated, and paid him the compliment of admitting to the truth. ‘I like you, very much. I feel more for you than I have for any man. But love... I don’t know what love is. I admit that I’m marrying you to get us out of this hole. I’m marrying you because apart from the children you’re all I’ve got, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you too. Perhaps I’m using you as a prop, I can’t say. But I do like you, Ned. I’m very fond of you, and I trust I will learn to love you.’

‘I’ll care for you, mistress.’

A warm smile lit her eyes. ‘I know. And don’t you think you should start by calling me by my first name?’

‘Gwenn,’ Ned breathed. Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it reverently and pressed his burning cheek to her cool palm.

A
lan recognised where he was. The crossroads was a bow-shot ahead, round a curve in the road, which meant that Kermaria was less than two miles away. The long run had improved Firebrand’s temper. Once the courser had worked off his excess energy, he was a delight to ride. It was a beautiful morning with bright sunshine and not too much wind. Alan could smell the sea. Contentedly he trotted along. In his pouch sat a letter sealed with the Duke’s seal authorising him to carry out his survey, but today Alan felt free of his responsibilities. It seemed a long while since he had taken any time for himself, and he was enjoying it. It was good to be away from the court for once, and he was looking forwards to seeing his cousin. He could not be certain that Ned would have stayed at Kemaria, but he thought it likely.

Pleased with himself and the world in general, Alan scanned the hedgerows. They were bursting with life. The sloes were coming into flower, a gnarled old crab-apple had unfurled its leaves, birds were nesting in every branch and bough. Idly, he fell to speculating on what sort of a girl the concubine’s daughter would have grown into.

Alan’s ears caught the sound of frantic hoofs ripping along the Kermaria road. He frowned and drew rein. There were deep ruts in the highway left over from last winter’s mires, and that rider was doing his mount no service. At that speed the animal was likely to trip and break a leg.

Kicking Firebrand’s chestnut flanks, Alan urged him forward in order to have a clear view round the bend. A pretty palfrey thundered towards him. She was riderless.

‘Steady, Firebrand,’ Alan murmured, and holding the Duke’s courser firmly, he waited for the lathered mare to reach him. He caught her trailing bridle easily, and dismounted.

The palfrey rolled her eyes. She was frightened and a white froth of foam dripped from her mouth. ‘What’s happened, girl?’ Alan spoke softly. The horse, a lady’s mount if ever he saw one, carried no saddle and was haltered for her stall, which brought him to the conclusion that she was not being ridden when she was alarmed. He ran his hand over the mare’s quivering withers and felt something sticky. He glanced at his fingers, eyes widening. Blood? Wondering who in his right mind would beat such a gorgeous animal, he bent closer. The mare’s coat was undamaged. The blood was not hers then, but someone else’s. Alan thought aloud. ‘Where have you run from? Kermaria?’

He set his sights on the road which led to St Clair’s manor, and his brows formed a black line above his eyes. What was going on? Taking the palfrey’s reins firmly in one hand, Alan remounted Firebrand. Suspicions aroused, he decided to proceed cautiously. He did not like the look of this.

***

Brother Marzin had his habit rolled up to his elbows. A dumpy young man with a pot of a stomach, he was unused to wielding anything more weighty than a paintbrush, and he was sweating from his exertions. Setting hammer and chisel aside, he wiped his hands on his habit and extended them to help Gwenn through the breach he and Dominig had made in the cell wall. He puffed. To think Dominig had incarcerated them unaided...

‘My thanks.’ Gwenn clambered over the rubble, cradling a bonny baby in the crook of one arm. Her hair was all but loose, her dress was torn, and brambles were hooked onto the hem of her skirts. ‘Please help my sister.’

Brother Marzin eased the silent child over the stones. ‘Relax,’ he said softly. ‘You’re stiff as a board.’ Briefly, the girl’s hazel eyes met his and the look in them sent an icy shiver racing down his spine. No child ought to have eyes like that. They were tired, exhausted eyes; the eyes of an old, embittered woman who had too many sorrows to mourn them all. And under those chilling eyes, charcoal smudges bruised olive skin that was otherwise smooth and unblemished. The girl’s clothing and person, unlike her sister’s, were scarcely disturbed. Brother Marzin was puzzled. Unless one saw those tragic eyes one would assume that she had escaped entirely unscathed from whatever Armageddon had driven them here. He put the child down, and Gwenn’s free arm curled protectively about her shoulders, like a mother hen hiding her chick under her wing.