Otto Malait saw a plain, pathetic barn of a chapel. But it was the only solid building in the monastery; and save for a couple of wall paintings which put the rest in the shade, it was completely unadorned. These monks did not have so much as a brass crucifix, theirs was of varnished beech. One scornful glance told Otto that the chapel could not house his quarry.
‘What’s behind the altar stone?’ he demanded. He was beginning to regret having listened to that local trooper. He should have known better than to heed the advice of a man with an eye like that. Trooper Bernard probably couldn’t see past his own nose. Otto pictured Fletcher and the concubine’s daughter racing deep into the forest while he rattled about in this place. His feet itched to continue the chase.
‘Why nothing, Captain,’ Prior Hubert replied, blandly. The prior was of a retiring nature, but he could, if pressed, set his shyness aside. He misliked the burly, martial looks of the Norseman, who was of a breed the prior despised. He was a just man, and he did not want to betray the people who had claimed sanctuary in their hermit’s cell before he had had a chance to judge the merits of the case for himself. He looked into the mercenary’s light eyes; the pupils were mere pinpricks. This blond Goliath was full of hate. St Félix would approve of a mild deception in a good cause.
‘You have no hidden entrance? No vaults?’ Otto swung on his heels, impatient with the churchman’s unctuous manner.
The prior’s grey, tonsured head shook. ‘This is no cathedral, my son.’
‘No silver plate tidied away?’ In the matted, sweaty nest of a beard, greedy red lips curved.
‘As you have doubtless observed, my son, our community prides itself on the simplicity of its rule. But I suggest you look for yourself, and then you will have no doubts.’ Prior Hubert sucked in a breath, wondering whether it might be in the refugees’ best interests to make mention of the anchorite’s cell. If he omitted to do so, then the Norseman’s trooper, who clearly knew the area, would be bound to say something. The prior came to the conclusion that if he drew the Viking’s attention to the cell, he would dismiss the information on the grounds that anything freely given was worthless. ‘The only item worthy of interest in our chapel is the anchorite’s cell,’ he said.
‘Anchorite’s cell? Where?’
Prior Hubert pointed with the staff he used as a walking stick. It was curved at the top so it resembled a bishop’s crozier, and the prior fooled no one with his assertion that he needed the staff to hobble about, for he was a slender, sprightly man with a spring in his step.
Following the direction of the prior’s staff, Otto found himself scowling at the only plain, undecorated wall in the building. He could see why the other walls had been whitewashed, ready for painting, for the mortar was appallingly botched. ‘All I can see is an ordinary wall you’ve neglected to limewash. Where’s the door?’
‘My son,’ the prior was astonished that even a faithless mercenary should be so ignorant. ‘An anchorite abjures everything this world offers. He makes an oath never to leave the cell while he has breath in his body. There is no door.’
‘No door?’ Otto was fascinated, despite himself. ‘I had heard of anchorites, but I never thought a living man would prison himself freely.’
‘Not all anchorites attain the same levels of self-denial,’ Prior Hubert informed him. ‘Our Brother Biel, who went to God last Christmas, was renowned for his asceticism.’
‘Careful, Father,’ Otto grinned, ‘lest the Tempter sows pride in your heart.’
The prior flushed.
‘It’s a tomb for the living.’ Otto was revolted.
‘A pathway to Heaven, my son.’
‘Don’t pontificate. Is anyone in it now?’
‘Aye. A young man has taken Brother Biel’s place,’ Prior Hubert said, trusting that God would forgive him for misleading the mercenary. He was not lying, there was a young man in there...
Otto stalked to the quatrefoil. ‘Can’t see a damn thing through this. You’ve been penny-pinching with your mason. The mortar’s done very ill, and he’s chiselled this askew.’
Prior Hubert ran a thin finger over the curve of his crook. ‘You’re not meant to see in,’ he explained pleasantly, ‘if you could, it follows the hermit would be able to see out. He might be distracted by the world he has forsworn. He might be tempted–’
‘To break out?’ Shifting to the squint, Otto tried to peer through it, but he could see only shadows. ‘I can hear breathing.’
‘It’s God’s will that the young man lives. I pray he lives longer than Brother Biel.’ Prior Hubert lifted his hand and drew a blessing in the air.
‘Christ on the Cross, you’re insane!’ Otto strained his eyes at the squint. ‘It’s black as sin in there. We laymen treat prisoners better than this!’ He wrenched his head back and strode for the door.
‘Won’t you stay and pray with me, my son?’
Otto paused, his ox-like frame filling the doorway. He turned his face to the sun and his shadow spread like a dark stain over the church floor. ‘Not I.’
‘My son, you have a soul. It needs care.’
‘You’re the man of prayer, Father. Say one for me. I prefer action.’ Otto saluted indifferently, and was gone.
In the cell, Ned unclenched his fingers from his sword hilt. He had been holding it so hard he had driven the blood from his fingers. ‘Not that there would have been room for me to wield it in this oubliette of a place,’ he muttered.
‘Ned, has he gone?’
‘He’s gone.’
Gwenn sighed. ‘We’ll have to wait before they release us. The brothers will want to make sure he’s not coming back.’
‘Aye.’
Time dragged in the dismal cell until it seemed they had been immured for hours. In reality, less than an hour later the shutter on the north wall rattled, and a pale smudge of light appeared. It dimmed almost at once as one of the brethren pressed a fleshy, rotund face to the opening. ‘Here. Dominig mentioned you needed water,’ the monk said, withdrawing to thrust a goatskin flask through the aperture. ‘And here’s linen for your hurts, and for the infant.’
Ned knelt on the stone ledge to take them. ‘My thanks.’ He stared at the soft contours of the countenance framed by the wall. There was something familiar about the monk’s eyes. They were light brown and brimming with dreams, and he was sure he had seen them before. ‘What’s your name, Brother?’
‘I’m known as Brother Marzin, but I’ve yet to take my vows.’
‘Marzin,’ Ned murmured. ‘Doesn’t fit.’
‘Eh?’
‘Nothing. I must be mistaken. When will you release us?’
The monk blinked uncertainly while his eyes accustomed themselves to the inky darkness of their prison. ‘The prior says–’ Brother Marzin broke off and turned aside to speak to someone who must have come up to stand beside him in the chapel yard. After a few moments’ murmured consultation, the monk’s round cheeks came back into view. ‘Prior Hubert is here.’
The prior’s clear-cut features replaced the blurred roundness of Brother Marzin’s. ‘Good day, young man.’
‘Good day, Brother.’
‘Father,’ the prior corrected him, thinning austere lips. ‘I am prior here.’ This bloody young man looked scarcely more personable than the knave who had just left. Prior Hubert did not like soldiers of any class. If monks were the body of Christ, mercenaries must be Satan’s. And because of these men of violence, the routine of St Félix’s was in disarray. Prime had been delayed.
‘My apologies, Father,’ Ned said, politely.
The prior’s taut lips eased. This one appeared to have some concept of courtesy. ‘I am sorry that you have been housed so ill, but Brother Dominig stressed the urgency of your plight, and his idea, though unorthodox, has proved sound. Your pursuers have gone, and as far as I can ascertain, they have no idea of your presence here.’
‘Thank God,’ Ned said, with feeling.
‘Do you think they’ll come b
ack?’ Prior Hubert asked.
‘Christ’s wounds, I hope not.’
The prior rapped on the shutter with his staff. ‘I’ll not stand for blaspheming in God’s house.’
‘Sorry, Father.’
‘Would you mind telling me your circumstances? Brother Dominig’s account was inadequate.’
Gwenn moved into the weak slant of light. ‘We’re from Kermaria, Father Hubert,’ she said. There was no reason to be secretive with the man who had married her parents.
‘Kermaria?’ The lines on the lean face sharpened. ‘Who are you? What happened there?’
‘I am Gwenn Herevi, Sir Jean’s...natural daughter. Father, we were attacked. My father has been butchered by his enemies, and we are fleeing them. I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you took us in. They would have murdered my baby brother.’
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 Marzi
n 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.
The Stone Rose Page 33