‘Relax, Malait,’ Alan said. ‘Vannes will be clear of them by sunset. Sit down and have another drink.’ He slid a cup towards him. ‘You’ve a problem?’
‘No. It’s nothing,’ Otto said, swiftly. ‘I wanted to make sure we’ve carried out our orders.’
‘Exceptional diligence.’
‘Eh?’
The English mercenary smiled thinly, and to Otto’s relief, fell silent.
‘I’ve a confession, Captain Malait.’ Ned Fletcher leaned forwards, blue eyes bright and confiding. ‘I’m glad they’re going without us having a hand in it.’
‘Are you, lad?’ Reseating himself, Otto smiled with what Alan realised was uncommon tolerance.
Alan did not like the way Otto Malait was regarding his cousin, not that he cared how his fellow captain and his cousin took their pleasures. However, he knew his conventional cousin well enough to realise that he would consider an advance from the Viking an abomination. Ned might be one of the softer members of his troop, he might well crave affection, but his cornflower-coloured eyes only ever strayed to the lasses. ‘To tell you the truth, Malait, I’m relieved myself,’ Alan admitted. ‘I intend resigning this day. De Roncier will have to find another captain for my troop.’
‘Resign your commission?’ Ned blurted. His artless eyes were round and full of hurt. ‘You never mentioned it to me.’
‘I’m mentioning it now. I intend pitching my tent elsewhere.’ His cousin looked thunderstruck, and Alan felt bound to elaborate. ‘I intended resigning yesterday. You will recall, Ned, we signed on till this quarter day, but as de Roncier seemed disinclined to pay the men until the job was done, I thought I’d see it through.’ Alan saw no reason to mention the additional silver he had been promised.
‘Does the Count know your plans?’
Otto snorted. ‘If I know our captain, he won’t inform de Roncier that he’s not going to renew his contract, until he’s got his grimy paws on his pay. Am I correct?’
A dark brow lifted. ‘I trust our noble Count about as much as I would trust you, Malait.’
Mellowed by his mead, the Viking looked delighted. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
Ned butted in. ‘Alan–’
‘Don’t fret yourself over your pay, Ned. I won’t leave until you’ve got yours.’
‘It’s not that, Alan, but...but...’ Ned stuttered to a halt, scarlet flags flying in his cheeks.
‘Your kinsman’s going to miss you, le Bret,’ Otto drawled, amused. ‘Never mind, I’ll be here to hold his hand.’
The flush deepened on Ned’s cheeks but the innuendo escaped him. ‘But why, Alan? Why leave? You told me yourself that the Count always pays in the end.’
‘I’ve stayed with de Roncier long enough.’ Alan lifted his shoulders. ‘Let’s just say I’m going in search of greener pastures.’
Ned jerked his flaxen head at the ceiling. ‘You don’t like him.’
Alan looked blank. ‘Like de Roncier? What’s liking got to do with it? You don’t have to like a man to work for him.’
‘Don’t you?’
Ned’s gaze could be very penetrating. Exasperated, Alan shook his head, but he held his peace. If his cousin wanted to think he was resigning for moral reasons, then who was he to disabuse him? Wearily, he reached for his ale, and as he did so, he became aware that a hush had fallen over the thin company. Looking up, he was shocked to see the concubine’s daughter brazenly threading her way through the tables. She was swathed in another of those filmy veils which were more fitted to a Saracen’s harem than a tavern in Vannes. This one was sea-green.
The pedlar had seen the girl too, and he was choking on his drink. ‘Look, Captain!’
Alan shrank back to conceal himself, partly behind Otto Malait’s substantial bulk, and partly behind a wooden beam. ‘I’ve seen her,’ he muttered. ‘No. Don’t turn round, Malait. The concubine’s daughter has just flown in.’
‘What? Here?’ Malait turned and looked her up and down.
‘Christ, Malait,’ Alan groaned.
‘Simmer down, Captain, the wench doesn’t know me from Adam. It was you set the mob on her.’ Otto’s straw-like beard concealed a malicious grin. The Viking knew he was speaking too loudly for Alan’s peace of mind, but he enjoyed needling him. He took everything so seriously, did Captain le Bret. Above the straw the pale eyes narrowed. ‘I wonder if she’s left the old witch on her own?’
Alan deemed it wiser not to respond. With the inn being all but empty, there was a real danger she might recognise them. Ned had turned his face away, half covering it by resting a cheek on a hand. Duke’s Tavern was the last place Alan had expected to see St Clair’s bastard after yesterday. He strained his ears to hear what she was saying.
‘Is Irene about?’ She addressed the yawning potboy. He was clearing a nearby trestle of wine slops and crumbs with a filthy, discoloured cloth that Alan’s mother would have burnt a year ago.
‘Eh?’ Tristan flicked a piece of gristle into the rushes. A furry white streak flashed across the floor. A dog’s jaws snapped. Amiably, Tristan kicked the animal towards the routiers and continued his ineffectual wiping.
‘Irene, is she about?’
Heaving himself to his feet, Otto Malait adjusted his sword belt and lifted one of the fresh, unlit torches down from its wall stand. ‘I’m off,’ he said. If the girl was in the inn, the old woman had to be alone, for the pedlar had informed them the boy was elsewhere. This was a God-given opportunity to get de Roncier’s statue. A weak old woman wouldn’t be able to offer much resistance.
‘Malait,’ Alan glared, ‘what the hell are you playing at?’
‘I’m going to stretch my legs, le Bret,’ Otto answered, belligerently waving the torch. ‘Any objections?’
‘Keep your voice down. I don’t object. In fact it would be a relief if you did leave. Strategy never was one of your strong points. Fletcher and I, you may not have noticed, are keeping our heads down. What the hell are you doing with that torch, Malait?’
‘I’ve a use for it,’ came the cryptic reply.
‘And your pay?’
‘I’ll collect that later.’ Otto’s gaze rested briefly on Ned Fletcher, as he realised, with regret, it was most likely the lad would accompany his cousin. ‘We’ll meet again?’
‘Perhaps.’
Swinging stiffly back to the table, Otto shoved a scarred fist under Alan’s nose. ‘In case I don’t see you, I wish you good luck. I hope you find your Valhalla.’
‘My thanks.’ Solemnly the two mercenaries shook hands.
‘I trust we’ll never find ourselves fighting on opposite sides in anyone’s war, le Bret.’
‘Amen to that, Malait. I’d have to kill you.’
‘Not a hope this side of the Underworld.’ Otto’s mouth split in a gaping grin. ‘You’d be mincemeat before you knew what hit you. Au revoir, le Bret.’
Meanwhile the concubine’s daughter was persisting with her quest. ‘I...I’d like to see Irene.’ Her eyes darted nervously to the Viking as he shouldered past her and left the inn.
‘Irene’s not here,’ Tristan said.
The concubine’s daughter placed herself in the potboy’s path, and when he went to move to the next trestle, she was there, waiting for him. Her fingers were crumpling the edges of her veil. There was something different about her, and it puzzled Alan. Yesterday, when he had seen her for the first time, her face had been full of confusion and not a little fear, but he had sensed hidden reserves in her. She had at first refused to accept what was happening to her – she’d not begun to flee until his missile had actually struck her. Alan had put that down to natural arrogance. But watching her now, he realised his assessment had been inaccurate.
Today, though the girl was insistent that Tristan take notice of her, her confidence had gone, and with it that touch of pride. She had lost that blind faith in human nature that only the truly innocent possess. Well, that would do her no harm, the sooner she learned the harsh re
alities of life, the better. However, it was surprising to discover that a concubine’s daughter could have been so innocent. Alan rubbed his chin. She must have been fenced off from hurt, and blind prejudice, and hate – until yesterday, when all those things had come hurtling towards her in the shape of the good citizens of Vannes.
The girl must be wondering whether she was safe in Mikael Brasher’s tavern. She was wondering whether the people sitting at the tables were the same people who had chased her yesterday. Her eyes travelled inevitably to their table, and hastily Alan ducked his head.
‘Not gone yet?’ Tristan asked, with lazy insolence.
‘As you see.’ The girl’s cheeks were white as snow. She gave the lad a shaky smile. ‘Would you give Irene a message for me?’ Fine-boned hands were clasped in front of her small breasts. ‘Please?’
‘Very well.’ Grudgingly, the potboy put his hands on his hips. ‘What’s your message?’
‘I...I want you to say au revoir to Irene for me.’
‘Au revoir? You’re coming back?’
‘N...no. No. I...I mean adieu.’ Her pale cheeks coloured, and pitilessly Alan suppressed a pang of fellow-feeling. The boy drummed his fingers on the trestle. ‘Say farewell, and please give Irene this.’ She held out a narrow strip of parchment.
Tristan looked at it with the wary eyes of a man to whom reading was a deep mystery. ‘What is it?’ he demanded, suspiciously.
‘It’s only my direction. If Irene needs a friend, tell her she can find Gwenn there.’
Gwenn, thought Alan. Her name was Gwenn. And she could read and write. He shook his head in amazement. Her mother must be quite mad. What use was that to a girl?
Tristan stared at the creamy ribbon of vellum. ‘Irene can’t read,’ he said.
The girl looked nonplussed. ‘No. How stupid of me. I suppose not. Of course she can’t.’
Tristan appeared to relent. ‘She could ask Father Mark to make it out.’
The girl’s face cleared and she thrust the scrap of parchment at Tristan who, with uncommon fastidiousness, wiped thumb and forefinger on his breeches before touching it. ‘Many thanks. Farewell.’ She scuttled into the street, and the potboy tucked the parchment into his sleeve.
At the trestle in the corner, Alan, Ned, and Conan the pedlar all breathed again. Ned Fletcher spoke for all of them. ‘I thought she’d be bound to see us.’
‘Gwenn,’ Alan muttered. ‘It’s very apt.’
‘What was that?’
Alan’s eyes focused on his young kinsman’s. ‘The girl’s name is Gwenn.’
‘So I heard. But I don’t–’
‘You ought to polish up your Breton, cousin, but I’ll translate for you. Gwenn means white. It’s the Breton equivalent of Blanche.’
‘White?’ Ned echoed. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Think about it. White. It also means fair.’
‘She is pretty,’ his cousin said, gazing through the door.
‘Is she?’ Alan picked up his tankard and swirled the dregs of his ale round the bottom. ‘White, symbol of purity and innocence. But the mud’s beginning to cling, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t worry about it, Ned.’ Alan tossed back the last of his ale and met his cousin’s cornflower gaze straight on. ‘Permit me to give you one last piece of advice.’
‘Aye?’
‘If you intend to stay in this business, it’s advisable not to get to know your enemies too well before you start a campaign. You can end up feeling sorry for them, and that only leads to disaster.’ Alan pushed back his stool.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Ned said agreeably. ‘Are you leaving at once?’
‘When I’ve collected what’s owed me.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘That, Ned, my lad, is no one’s business but my own.’
Ned hauled in a breath. ‘I know. But as you pointed out, I was only committed to serving Count de Roncier to this quarter day too, and I hate the man. I want to leave his service. I’d like to go with you.’ He flushed self-consciously.
‘You’re no longer a beardless boy that you need a mentor.’
‘But I’d like to go with you.’ One of Ned’s square hands ran through his flaxen hair. ‘Damn it, Alan. I like your company. Does our friendship mean nothing to you?’
Deliberately Alan turned his eyes from his cousin’s eloquent blue gaze. ‘I travel alone this time, Ned. Nothing personal, but I need to travel alone.’ He extended a hand, which his cousin blinked at. ‘Fare you well.’
Ned’s stool scraped back and the young trooper got stiffly to his feet. ‘I understand.’ He gave Alan a last, searching look. ‘I’ll accompany you upstairs. I still intend to quit, but I’ll make my own way after.’
‘Captain,’ the pedlar snatched at Alan’s leather gambeson, ‘I’ve not been paid.’
Peeling the grasping, wiry fingers from the hem of his jerkin, Alan groped in his pouch for a silver penny and dropped it on the pedlar’s palm. ‘Thanks for the information, Conan.’
‘You’ll commend me to Count de Roncier?’
‘I will.’ Mentally, Alan added the pedlar’s coin to his tally of what de Roncier owed him. He headed for the stairs, Ned hard on his heels.
Conan noticed the stray dog lying by his feet as faithfully as if he were his master. He threw it the heel of the loaf, which vanished in one hungry bite. Rising slowly, Conan the pedlar picked up his tray of goods and prepared to leave. He kicked the dog in passing.
Chapter Seven
Standing with the well between her and the entrance to La Rue de la Monnaie, Gwenn tried to calm herself. The two routiers who had been outside the cathedral yesterday were slumped over a trestle in Duke’s Tavern; and the Viking who had pushed past her with a torch had been sitting with them. They had to be de Roncier men. Gwenn was almost certain she had concealed her dismay from them, and that they had no inkling that she had recognised them; but her mind was a bubbling brew-tub of questions.
Why were they in the tavern? Were they planning more trouble? And what did that giant of a Norseman want with a torch in clear day? If only she could believe their presence that morning was an unlucky coincidence, and that they were merely quenching their thirst.
Conscious that her hands were trembling, Gwenn curled her fingers into her palms. She had believed her mother and grandmother had been exaggerating when they attributed the trouble to the French noble. All this talk of ancient grudges stemming from those long-distant days before her mother had even been born had seemed most unlikely, but now...
She tried to still the ferment inside her. She told herself that mercenaries were men of violence. What had been a stomach-churning nightmare to her, to them was more than likely only a mildly exciting romp through the streets. And de Roncier’s men had not trailed her home, the townsfolk had done that. And now, in the square, in broad daylight, with the citizens going placidly about their daily business, it was hard to believe that they meant her any lasting hurt. The mercenaries were only drinking in the tavern, as they did every morning, no doubt. It meant nothing. The cathedral was behind her. The sun was shining down La Rue de la Monnaie as it often did.
A brisk wind raised goosebumps on her arms, its gusts buffeting the martins, screeching and scissoring after insects in the sky above. A dark canopy of clouds hung over the thatched roofs in the western quarter. Gwenn drew her veil over her head. The martins would have to hurry, or the coming rainstorm would put paid to their meal. She hoped the rain would pass quickly, for her grandmother could not have ridden in a decade and it would make a penance of the journey to Kermaria.
Casting her glance past the well to her house at the far end of La Rue de la Monnaie, Gwenn pulled up sharply. A restless crowd had gathered outside. Her blood ran cold. St Gildas save us, she prayed. Don’t let this happen again. Yesterday had been a bad dream, but Jean St Clair had been there and his men had fended off the crowd. Today he had gone to Kermaria with her mother,
and the promised escort had not yet arrived.
More citizens were joining the crowd milling about at the other end of the street. They were like ants when their nest is disturbed, running back and forth with distracted, disorderly movements. There were shouts of confusion. People started run, they were charging towards her. Gwenn’s heart shifted in her breast.
‘Sweet Jesus, no!’ She stumbled back a pace. ‘Not again. Sweet Jesus...’
Several townsfolk roared up to the well, blocking her way to the house. Poised for flight, Gwenn edged backwards. ‘Mother of God, help me.’
Outside her house, the crowd was growing. More desperate questions bubbled up. Was Raymond back or were Izabel and Katarin alone in there? Would the mob break in? What would they do to them? Her limbs locked and, like yesterday, she couldn’t run. Grandmama! Katarin! And then she realised that it did not matter that she could not move, for she could no more abandon her family than fly up with the martins. ‘No,’ she said, firmly, to brace herself.
One of the men at the well looked across at her. He was, to her astonishment, hauling on the well rope. It was Pierre, the herbalist. She waited for the onslaught that was sure to follow his sight of her.
‘Gwenn! It’s Gwenn!’ Pierre screeched, and irrationally he grinned at her. ‘She’s not in the house!’
Why was Pierre pulling up the well bucket? A new terror broke on the roiling surface of her mind. Surely they were not intending throwing her down the well? Of all the crimes that could be committed in a town, polluting the water supply was one of the most heinous. The laws protecting wells were upheld by people in every walk of life. Everyone from rich merchant to poor beggar, from Breton to Frenchman, from nun to cutpurse, all sang out with one voice against anyone low enough to contaminate a well. Gwenn conquered a violent compulsion to scream.
Pierre was shouting at her. ‘Gwenn! Gwenn! Is anyone in there?’
‘What?’ Fear hampered her thoughts, and understanding was slow. ‘What?’
The Stone Rose Page 10