The Stone Rose

by Carol Townend

  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 openl
y 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?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We’ll bring Katarin.’

  Jean’s brown eyes twinkled. ‘Would you? That would be kind. Your mother and I have matters to discuss en route, and much as we love the little one,’ he bent and gave Katarin’s rounded cheek an affectionate pinch, ‘Yolande’s mind works best when not centered on the child.’

  ‘Raymond will be back soon, I’m sure,’ Izabel said agreeably, waving her daughter and Jean from the chamber. ‘You go on ahead.’

  ‘God speed, sir,’ Gwenn said. Though her father was apparently acknowledging her as his, she would continue to address him as ‘sir’ until such time as she was commanded otherwise.

  When Yolande and Jean left the house, the pedlar was back on the patch that he had occupied the morning before. A mangy white cur sat a couple of paces away from him, tongue lolling.

  Yolande walked vigorously. Much as she might regret being driven from Vannes like the town pariah, she was not sorry to be moving out of La Rue de la Monnaie. She was glad to be leaving the old life behind her. This would be a fresh start, the one she had longed for, and she would not look back.

  The bright beacon of the sun warmed her head through her veil. Jean’s arm was under her hand, strong and firm. She had been right to trust him. Wasn’t he taking them to Kermaria, where they would be safe? Keeping her head firmly to the front, she fastened her eyes on the horses Jean’s squire, young Roger de Herion, was holding for them at the end of the street. Who knows, she thought, one day he might marry me. She did not mind about her unmarried state for herself, she and Jean were already bound together and no priest’s mumblings could strengthen that bond. It was the children she worried about. Of its own accord, her head turned. One last glance wouldn’t hurt.

  Her eyes lit on the pedlar. The shiftless fellow was already deserting his place, kicking that poor dog out of his path. Yolande watched him shuffle towards the square, and guessed that he was heading for Duke’s Tavern. How could he hope to make any money when he didn’t have the sense to stick to his patch for more than five minutes at a stretch?

  ‘Taking a farewell look?’ Jean asked.

  Yolande nodded, throat too constricted for speech, and blinked rapidly. She had lived in that small wooden building for sixteen years. She had borne all her children in it.

  Jean’s hand covered hers. ‘A new life,’ he murmured.

  From a distance the house was unremarkable. It was just one of the many thatched wooden houses in Vannes. Yolande swallowed. ‘A new life,’ she managed. And slowly, sedately, the town’s most innocent, most notorious concubine left La Rue de la Monnaie for the last time. She had no idea that by the time the midday Angelus rang out, not a trace of that street would remain.

  ***

  Otto Malait sauntered into Duke’s Tavern with as much bravado as he could muster, fine hair hanging in rats’ tails about his shoulders, beard uncombed. Mornings were not a good time for the Norseman, but he invariably felt stronger when he’d downed a potful or two. He saw Alan le Bret at once, half hidden by a smoke-blackened beam in a corner to the left of the fire. Ned Fletcher, the lad Otto was interested in, and the pedlar, Conan, were at le Bret’s table, bread and ale set before them. A lousy hound was shaking fleas into the rushes. The yawning potboy was removing last night’s spent torches from the wall sconces and replacing them with fresh ones which would be lit that evening. Otto caught the potboy’s eye and, signalling for service, went to join his colleagues.

  ‘An unholy trinity,’ he observed. His mind was fixed on religious concerns as well as Ned Fletcher, for that morning Count de Roncier had asked him to obtain a statue of the Holy Virgin from the concubine’s house. The Holy Virgin? In a harlot’s house? Shaking his head to clear it of last evening’s wine fogs, Malait recalled that de Roncier wanted the statue’s existence kept dark. Now why should that be?

  Alan kicked a stool out for him. ‘If we’re the unholy trinity, Malait, what does that make you? A fallen angel?’

  Ned Fletcher smothered a laugh, but the potboy, Tristan, waiting at Otto’s elbow for his order, was foolish enough to snigger aloud.

  ‘Get me wine, boy,’ Otto growled. ‘Or mead. Anything but ale. Move.’ Otto’s calloused hand descended to the potboy’s shoulder to twist him round.

  ‘You’re late, Malait,’ Alan said. ‘The Count beat you to your post this morning.’

  ‘Oh?’ That’s what le Bret thought. Count François had had him roused before sunrise to confer with him, which was one reason he felt so rough. As to the other reason – the Norseman glanced briefly at the Saxon lad, whose innocent blue eyes were watching him – the boy hadn’t the first idea that he was the reason Otto had dipped too deeply in the barrel last night. This morning Otto’s head felt as though it was compressed in too tight a helmet, but another drink would soon mend that.

  Le Bret’s grey eyes were trained on the soot-blackened ceiling. ‘The Count’s up there,’ he said. ‘Counting his coin. He’s sworn to pay up, and he’s had the strongbox carried up.’

  ‘And a woman too, I’ll be bound.’ Otto scowled. ‘It’s fortunate for the Count that there are men like us prepared to do his work for him while he plays.’

  The potboy stumbled up, bearing a tray with an assortment of vessels, variously filled, and all slopping over to make a muddy brown lake on the tray.

  Alan passed the Viking the largest vessel. ‘Here’s a drinking horn worthy of Odin himself. You can souse yourself in this today, Malait. You need sweetening. Washeil!’

  Rolling a jaundiced eye at his companion-at-arms, Otto thrust the goblet to his mouth.

  ‘Sweetening?’ Ned asked. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mead,’ his cousin informed him, as the Viking drained the cup dry. ‘He’s a
bear without it.’

  Tristan unloaded his swimming tray and shuffled off.

  Emerging from his goblet with mead spreading warmth along his veins, Otto scanned the inn. ‘Tavern’s a morgue today,’ he said, sleeving golden liquid from his beard.

  The pedlar, glimpsing his opening, lurched into speech. Conan calculated that if he was especially helpful a large pourboire might be forthcoming. ‘Aye, Captain. It’s like this most mornings, early on. It was only yesterday because of the Black Monk...’ The pedlar became aware that the three pairs of eyes watching him were bored, and his voice trailed off to finish lamely, ‘but of course you know that.’

  Alan nodded. ‘Awake now, Malait?’

  Otto grunted.

  ‘Good. Conan informs me that Yolande Herevi and Jean St Clair left Vannes half an hour ago. They had horses waiting, and rode out via the postern gate.’

  Otto’s pale eyes bulged as he digested this information. ‘God rot them, don’t tell me the old crone has turned tail too?’ The Count had been most explicit about wanting the statue, which apparently belonged to Izabel Herevi; now Otto would have to chase after them and retrieve the thing – not that he relished the idea of an ambush in broad daylight. He eyed Ned Fletcher and the cups on the table. He could think of far pleasanter ways of spending a morning, but his orders had been specific. Reluctantly, he rose.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Alan demanded. ‘If they’ve gone, our task is done.’

  The Viking combed blunt fingers through his beard. De Roncier had been most insistent that Alan le Bret was not to be in on this. ‘Er...best to tail them, make sure that they’re off for good.’

  ‘They are,’ the pedlar assured him. ‘I kept my ears pinned to the shutters; St Clair told his woman he was sending someone back for her travelling chests. I heard one being pulled down the stairs. Made a hell of a row. Thump, thump, th–’

  ‘Thank you, Conan,’ Alan cut in, ‘we get the drift.’

  ‘What about the old woman?’ Otto demanded.

  The pedlar’s protruding belly rumbled. He scratched it and helped himself to some bread. On the floor, the dirty white cur pricked up its ears and shuffled closer. ‘As I heard it, she’s to follow later with St Clair’s bastards.’