The Stone Rose

by Carol Townend

  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.’

  ‘You ought to try and forget the tournaments, Waldin,’ Jean said. ‘You were courting disaster to go on as long as you did, and at your ripe old age you’d be begging for it.’

  ‘It’s a form of madness, I cannot deny that,’ Waldin agreed. ‘But there’s glory in it.’

  Jean looked tenderly at the sleeping child in his arms. ‘I’ve never understood your fascination with glory, Waldin. When it comes down to it, you end up spilling a gallon of blood, and it seems to me it’s largely a matter of chance whether it’s your blood or someone else’s.’

  ‘I understand,’ Ned put in.

  ‘Heaven help us,’ Jean said, in a resigned voice. ‘Your prating about glory is unsettling my men, Waldin.’ He glanced warmly at Ned. ‘I want to keep my sergeant. I don’t want to lose him to the jousts.’

  ‘Oh, I’d come back, sir, but it’s good to dream.’

  Raymond felt it was time he stuck his oars in. ‘Dream!’ He snorted. ‘All you ever do is dream.’ Predictably, Ned flushed. Raymond turned his fire on his uncle. ‘And as for wasting yourself for glory’s sake, Uncle, I agree with my father. You’re mad. I would only risk myself for something...tangible.’

  Waldin’s brown eyes narrowed. ‘Like an inheritance, perhaps?’ he suggested softly. He was hoping his nephew was merely stirring the pot to see what was in it.

  Raymond took his time answering. ‘Aye. I’d say an inheritance was worth fighting for. Father, do you not agree?’ But his father’s attention was fixed on the sounds filtering down the solar stairs. ‘Father?’

  ‘What’s that you said, Raymond?’

  ‘I was telling my uncle that I wouldn’t risk my neck for glory alone.’

  ‘No.’ Jean’s eyes were glued to the rafters. He stroked his daughter’s hair. ‘I’ve always needed something to fight for myself.’

  Lurching for the wine, Raymond forged on, making what he thought was a winning point. ‘Being the eldest son, Papa, you had something to fight for. Whereas Waldin, being the poor, younger son, had to make do with glory.’

  ‘I’ve been content, lad,’ Waldin put in, quickly.

  ‘You might have been. I–’

  A muffled shriek leeched the colour from Jean’s cheeks. ‘Sweet Jesus, does she have to suffer so?’

  ‘Here, Jean, have a drink,’ Waldin suggested. ‘It will help you forget–’

  ‘Forget? God’s Teeth, Waldin! How the bloody hell do you think I can forget that she is suffering?’

  ‘It will help you relax.’ Firmly, Waldin pressed an earthenware cup into his brother’s hand. ‘Take it. You look like a death’s-head.’

  Jean caught Ned’s sympathetic glance on him and knew he must set an example. An excess of sympathy never made for efficient fighting men, and Ned Fletcher was not the only one of his troop in the hall. Denis the Red and some others had drifted in for their evening meal. The mistress of the household might be fighting for her life, but the evening meals must still be served. Now why had he picked on that unfortunate phrase? God grant that Yolande was not fighting for her life...

  Jean cleared his throat. ‘Sergeant Fletcher?’ He was pleased how curt his voice came out.

  Ned sat up. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do you recall when the armourer said that he’d have the links mended on my spare coat of mail?’

  ‘Aye, sir. He promised it for the first of the month.’

  ‘So you could collect it on the morrow?’

  ‘If you wish, sir.’

  ‘Leave at first light, will you, Sergeant? That way you should be there and back by sunset.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  An agonised groan floated into the hall and though it was muted and cut off sharply, it succeeded in killing conversation. Jean clenched his fingers round his wine cup and stared blankly at the trencher someone had set before him. Desperately he tried to order his thoughts. If it was a boy, he must put his house in order. He didn’t trust de Roncier to let well alone if it was a boy. If the infant was a girl...

  Another muffled shriek had him burying his face in his daughter’s soft hair. He felt a tentative touch on his shoulder and looked up. The turnspit was standing beside him, a question in his eyes. ‘Roast beef, sir?’

  A platter of beef swimming in red juices was waved under his nose. Jean’s gorge rose and he waved the meat away. ‘Not for me. I’ve no appetite this evening.’ He lifted resigned eyes to his brother. ‘It would appear that it is going to be long night, Waldin.’

  Waldin dipped his head in acknowledgement. What they needed was something to speed the passage of time. ‘Mulled wine might help.’

  Jean knew it wouldn’t, but he dragged on the best smile he had. ‘My thanks, Waldin.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Duke Geoffrey of Brittany had a hunting lodge at Suscinio on the remote Rhuys peninsular. This long arm of land curved around the Small Sea, or Morbihan Gulf, and held back the worst of the weather from the larger ocean – the Morbraz. Miles from the town of Vannes, the land was wild and windswept – even the trees had been bent out of shape. The Duke’s lodge was an unpretentious wattle and daub building with a beaten earth floor, mean as any villein’s hovel. No lady would set foot in the place, which was one of the reasons Duke Geoffrey chose it for his bolt-hole. There were times when he felt the need to escape the restrictions his responsibilities imposed on him, and his lodge at least provided adequate protection from the elements.

  That August night, while Yolande St Clair laboured to give birth to her fourth child, Alan le Bret lay on his cloak at his Duke’s side at Suscinio, listening to the wind whistling through the thatch. ‘Makes you shiver to listen to it,’ he said, hands linked behind his head, ‘and everywhere else your people are sweating the fat off their ribs in the heat.’

  ‘Aye,’ Duke Geoffrey answered, lazily paring his nails with his dagger. ‘It’s always cool here. I hope you don’t resent me dragging you from Rennes, le Bret. Did you have a sweetheart there?’

  ‘No sweetheart,’ Alan said. ‘And I’m glad you brought me, Your Grace, because I’ve a brother at a monastery on this peninsular, very close by, and a visit’s long overdue.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a brother, le Bret, let alone one in holy orders.’

  ‘He’s a novice and his name is William.’

  ‘You want leave to see him?’

  ‘Please. He’s at the monastery of St Gildas and–’

  The Duke cut him off with a gracious wave of his hand and reached for the lantern. ‘Granted. But not on the morrow, le Bret. My forester tells me there’s a wolf on the prowl, and I’ve a mind to nail its head on that beam.
We’ll be up before dawn and in the saddle all day.’ The Duke stuck his dagger into the beaten earth floor, and closed the lantern, throwing them into inky darkness. His languid voice floated gently through the murk, ‘You may visit your brother the next day, le Bret.’

  ‘My thanks, Your Grace.’

  ***

  The following morning, in the grey hour before sunrise, the Kermaria cockerel stirred, blinked once, twice, gave his head a comb-waggling shake and tipped his head sideways to listen to the warm, sighing exhalations of the sleeping horses. His black eyes winked up at the sky. It was cloudless as it had been these several months past, and the light would be faint for another half hour. It was not quite time for him to crow, not quite time for him to wake the world and announce that morning had come.

  A whisper of sound sent the cockerel’s head swivelling in the direction of the tower. Up there, riding on the soft morning breeze, so weak that it was almost inaudible, was the thin, reedy cry of a newborn infant. Another noise was adrift on the breeze...someone was sobbing, and a phrase was being repeated over and over again. ‘Don’t go, Mama! Don’t go! Mama!’ The voice faded. More exhausted sobbing. But the cockerel had stopped listening, the sounds had no meaning for him. All he knew was that someone else was awake. Early or not, his duty was plain. He flung back his head and crowed the new day in.

  ***

  ‘I’ll take the baby down. Papa must be...told,’ Gwenn said, as soon as they’d made her mother’s body decent.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do it?’ the midwife asked, handing the infant to the dead woman’s daughter with ill-concealed relief.

  ‘It will be best if he hears it from me.’ Gwenn read concern in Berthe’s eyes and tried to smile. ‘I’m well enough,’ she said. Didn’t duty decree it? ‘In any event, I can’t bear to bide here for another moment.’

  ‘I understand,’ the midwife said. The commingled smells of birth and death were overpowering for those not inured to them. ‘You tell Sir Jean. I’ll...tidy up.’

  Do you understand? Do you really? Gwenn thought bleakly as she stumbled on legs made of wood towards the twisting turn of stairs. Her eyes were sore with the few tears she had shed, but aside from that she felt quite dead. She was cold inside, but it was a numb coldness – as though all the feeling had gone out of her, and she had truly turned to wood. It would have been a relief to have been able to indulge in a fit of shaking and sobbing and screaming.