The Stone Rose (45 page)

‘No need to apologise.’ Gwenn stroked the flaxen hair back from his damp brow.

‘I must have hurt you.’

‘No.’

‘It was too quick. You didn’t...like it. Oh God, Gwenn, I wanted so much for you to like it.’

Cradling his head, Gwenn kissed a hot cheek. ‘On my soul, it was fine, Ned.’

‘I love you, Gwenn.’

‘And I love you,’ Gwenn responded, realising with a start that she did love him. Not in the way of the grand passions that the troubadours sang of, but she did, most definitely, love him. Who could know Ned and not love him?

She became aware of a sticky wetness seeping out of her. Ned’s seed. It had been over more swiftly than she had thought it would, and the whole process was a thousand times more...animal than she had imagined, but whatever deficiencies there were in Ned’s technique, his love more than made up for it. And as for her not liking his lovemaking – it had hurt a little, but Gwenn had expected that. She had been a virgin. She would grow to like it, in time.

Easing himself out of her body, and filled with self-loathing, Ned drew his wife’s hand to rest on his shoulder. He avoided her eyes for fear of what he might read in them. Gwenn would despise him now, assuredly. Grimly, he hitched his chausses back into place. He had spoilt it. His rushed, callow fumbling had left them both fully clothed, and he’d reached a climax the instant he had entered her. Last time Ned had had a woman – a whore in Vannes – he had gone on for an age. Why could it not have been like that with Gwenn, whom he loved? She must hate him...hate him...

Gwenn grasped his chin with cool fingers. ‘Look at me, Ned.’

Ned braced himself to meet scorn and instead found himself basking in smiling warmth. Gwenn leaned forwards and pressed loving lips full on his. ‘Good night, my husband,’ she murmured, and nipped his lower lip between her teeth.

The relief was so intense it was almost his undoing. Swallowing down a rush of tears, Ned managed a smile and hugged his wife’s slight body fiercely to his. ‘Goodnight, Gwenn,’ his voice was choked. ‘God, how I love you. I’ll never let you go.’

A few minutes later they were both asleep.

Remember Lot’s wife.

Luke 17:32

H
ood up, Alan rode towards St Félix-in-the-Wood with the woodland chorus ringing in his ears. He had passed the night uncomfortably in a bed of leaves, and his muscles ached. He was profoundly worried. When he had reached Kermaria, he had found it crawling with de Roncier’s company. It had been a shambles. The bodies of St Clair’s men were laid out like so much meat in the courtyard, and a number of hard-faced de Roncier troopers were digging a grave-pit. The cookhouse had burned to the ground, and there were piles of arms everywhere. De Roncier’s horses were being led into St Clair’s stables.

With the Duke’s sealed letter in his scrip, there was nothing to prevent Alan marching straight in with a stream of demands and enquiries, but if de Roncier was involved, he knew he would be spun a web of lies. A disloyal thought leapt into his head. De Roncier’s intrigues against his family were as meticulously planned as his own Duke’s intrigues against his father and brother Richard. All were petty family squabbles, the only difference was the scale. And the innocents always paid the price.

Alan had doubled back to the crossroads, illicitly tethering Firebrand and the palfrey in a nearby tithe barn, where he hoped they would remain undiscovered. He had retraced his steps to Kermaria and spent an uncomfortable day crawling around the reed beds by the manor boundaries, trying to learn what he could about what had happened. His success had been limited. He had caught a peasant trapping a duck, and the peasant had been so relieved that Alan was not a de Roncier henchman that he had talked quite freely.

Jean St Clair was dead. The peasant was worried about who would become the next lord of the manor. François de Roncier’s reputation had preceded him and understandably the poacher did not want him to be the lord. Alan had enquired after Ned, but the wellbeing of an English soldier was of no interest to a Breton peasant. He knew nothing. Alan had even asked about the concubine’s daughter, but the poacher had no information about her either.

Hoping against hope that the brethren at St Félix-in-the-Wood would know more, Alan was now riding to the monastery. If he got no news out of the monks, he would pursue his inquiries at Kermaria in his official capacity.

He wondered how his brother would greet him. They had not parted on the best of terms. To his left, a wood pigeon cooed. Alan had the leading rein of the palfrey looped round his saddle horn; he intended to hand her over to the prior for safekeeping. Jean St Clair could no longer use her where he had gone and why should de Roncier be allowed to appropriate her for his Countess?

Alan had his cloak pinned tight for it had rained in the night, and every now and then a gust of wind shook raindrops from the leaves and showered him. He rode easily. There were no hoof prints or footprints. No one had ridden this way since the rain. If by some mischance he was challenged by a de Roncier man, he trusted his position with the Duke would protect him.

A hundred yards down the track stood a broad oak whose deeply fissured bark betrayed its great age. On hearing the horses approach, a cowled figure who had been taking his ease in its roots uncurled and slipped behind it. The man was clothed in an unbleached habit of coarse homespun, and a wooden cross hung on a leather thong at his breast. His vigil being over, Brother Marzin had taken Brother Jacob’s place on watch. By his sandalled feet, a brass handbell lay ready to sound the warning. He picked up the bell. ‘I’ll see his face first,’ Brother Marzin muttered and, holding the clapper of his bell so it would not betray him, he sucked in a breath and waited.

When the sound of the hoof beats had drawn level with his tree, he strode boldly into the horses’ path. ‘Good morrow, sir,’ he said, happy there was only one man to contend with.

Reining in, Alan flung back his hood. ‘Good morrow, Brother. I come in peace.’ He frowned, and leaned forwards to scrutinise the monk whose face had gone white as whey. He began to smile. ‘Why, Will!’

‘Peace? You?’ William sent an incredulous laugh whirling round the clearing. ‘When did you go anywhere in peace? I should have known it would be you. Like a buzzard, you’re always on the look-out for a battlefield to pick over.’

So the monks
had
heard something. Alan swung from the courser, held out his arms, and hung onto his smile. ‘I’ve come a long way to see you. Won’t you embrace me, Will?’ His smile wavered, for William had drawn back as though Alan’s touch would defile him.

‘God has granted my prayer, I see,’ William commented, tersely.

‘Prayer? You wanted to see me?’ Alan’s smile hovered faintly about his lips, as though expecting to grow stronger at any moment. ‘Let’s bury the hatchet. Embrace me.’

William kept his brother at bay with a paint-dyed hand. ‘I wanted to see you.’ His voice was clipped, unfriendly. ‘I wanted to see your face when you heard the news. I wanted to be the one to tell you what your leaving home did to Mother.’

Alan’s smile died. ‘What? What did my leaving do to Mother?’

‘You know how she doted on you. You should have known what your going would do to her.’

In a stride, Alan had his brother by the shoulders. ‘What happened, Will?’ he demanded, roughly.

‘The winter after you ran off, Mother died.’ Alan whipped his hands away. Astonishingly, he looked as though he had been kicked in the teeth. Long ago, William assumed that his brother’s profession had inured him to all feeling. Thank God, it appeared he was wrong. If Alan was capable of feeling, he was not quite the lost soul William had thought him. A reluctant sympathy began to grow in his breast.

‘Died?’ Alan repeated. ‘Mother? No. You’re lying, William. You seek to punish me for my sins. You hate me because I’m a mercenary and I’ve broken your most sacred laws. Tell me you’re lying.’ Alan had adored his mother. A loving woman, Mathilda le Bret’s only fault was that she loved her menfolk too much. Alan had left England to make his own way in the world, in part because he resented the way his mother had taken it for granted that he would become his father’s apprentice. She had tried to plan his life for him, but Alan wanted to plan his own life. If ever he was apprenticed to his father, it would be his own decision, not his mother’s. His leaving had been a statement of independence, but all the time he been away he had reserved a space for her in his heart. Whenever he had been lonely he had remembered her – he’d been comforted by the thought that her uncritical love was always there for him. That could not be ended, surely? All gone. All gone, and he’d never even known...

William gulped. His older brother had always kept his emotions buried, had always appeared invincible. A devil in William had wondered if his lawless brother was capable of suffering along with the rest of humanity. Apparently he was. But triumph, William discovered, had a bitter flavour. He had intended to blame their mother’s death directly on Alan, but face to face with his brother’s distress, the words stuck in his gullet. His eyes must have done the accusing for him, however; Alan’s alert grey eyes had become chinks.

‘You blame me.’ Alan sounded incredulous. ‘I should have thought that a man of your calling ought to be giving thanks that God called her to Him.’

William fell to studying the oak’s spreading roots. He heard Alan sigh and the chinking of harness, and glanced up. Alan had his back to him and was resting his forehead against the chestnut’s neck, gripping the animal’s mane with tense white fingers. The horse stamped a hoof. William’s conscience and his sympathy were roused. In a rush of guilt, he struck at his chest with a clenched fist. ‘
Mea culpa,
’ he said, like the penitent he was. And louder, ‘Alan, forgive me for breaking it to you so bluntly. I’ve done you a great wrong.’ He laid a contrite hand on his brother’s shoulder. Alan caught his hand, turned, and the brothers embraced.

***

Fretful crying woke Gwenn soon after dawn. Disoriented, she wondered why Johanna had not run to attend to Philippe. Confident that the wet nurse would see to her brother in a moment, Gwenn lazed comfortably until yesterday’s events rushed into her consciousness. Her stomach lurched.

Papa was dead, and Raymond, and Waldin, and... Shuddering, Gwenn nuzzled closer to the comforting warmth of Ned’s long body. She was in a Benedictine guesthouse. Outside, a mule was braying – on and on, like a creaky saw. She was steeling herself to climb out of bed and look the ruins of her world in the face, when Philippe fell silent.

Ned stirred and opened an eye. ‘Good morning, wife,’ he mumbled, and smoothed her dishevelled hair.

‘Good morning, Ned.’ Recollecting what had happened between them, Gwenn blushed, and gave him a shy smile. She opened her mouth to say more but Philippe began to wail again, more demandingly this time. It was impossible to ignore him. Rubbing her eyes, she levered herself upright and saw they were no longer alone. The door of the guesthouse was open, and horizontal bars of grey light streamed into the chamber. Another traveller’s belongings were strewn over one of the palliasses. In normal times it would be quite unexceptional for a guest in a monastery lodge to awaken and find they were sharing lodgings with strangers. Monks’ guesthouses were popular with travellers. But these were not normal times.

Elbowing Ned in the ribs, Gwenn indicated the figure seated cross-legged by the fire. A dark-haired man, in a short, serviceable green tunic with a broad leather belt, he was not dressed for fighting and did not look like one of de Roncier’s hounds. The newcomer had his back to them, and he had apparently been blowing on the fire to resurrect it, for he had small twigs and kindling in one hand. His other hand was raised to the baby, and long, nail-bitten fingers carefully stroked Philippe’s cheek. Certainly not a de Roncier man. It was his touch, Gwenn realised, that had quieted her brother. Katarin was awake, thumb, as ever, jammed into her pink mouth. She was sitting on her mattress facing the newcomer, with her honey-brown hair spilling over her eyes. Unperturbed by the newcomer, Katarin wore a dreamy look, as though she had not been awake long.

The man’s sword was unbuckled and lay on top of a dark mantle, but Ned was not about to take any risks. Under cover of Gwenn’s cloak, his fingers crept to his sword hilt. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. The newcomer turned, an amused smile lighting familiar grey eyes.

Gwenn gasped.

Ned let go of his sword hilt as though he’d grasped a bunch of nettles.

‘So formal, Ned?’ Alan rose to his feet and bowed in that mocking way of his.

‘Alan! Jesu, what are you doing here?’ Ned leapt up to embrace his cousin.

‘I might ask the same of you,’ Alan answered with an arch look at Gwenn who was painfully conscious that Alan must have watched them sleeping in each other’s arms. ‘You’ve changed, Ned. What are you up to? I would never have put you down as a despoiler of innocents.’

With an incoherent mutter Gwenn got up and went, hot-cheeked, to see to her brother’s needs.

‘Gwenn and I are married, Alan, if that’s what you mean,’ Ned said, stiffly.

‘No need to raise your hackles,’ Alan smiled. ‘The redoubtable prior told me you were wed. Congratulations.’

‘Alan, William is here, did you know? It’s his profession today.’

The dark head nodded. ‘I met him coming in. We’ve settled our differences, and I’ll stay to see him tonsured.’

Ned’s lips curved. ‘I’m glad of that. His grievances were eating away at him. Did he tell you they’ve made an artist of him?’

‘So I understand. It would seem there’s no stopping him. He tells me he’s been invited to Mont St Michel to paint the cloisters once he’s professed and has finished work here. It’s a high honour. I’m glad he’s found his true vocation.’

‘Has he accepted ours?’ Ned asked with a lopsided grin.

Alan laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say he accepts it, Ned. Tolerates it, perhaps.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I know what happened at Kermaria. It must have been hell on earth. Mistress, I’m sorry about your family, truly sorry. You have my deepest sympathies.’