That Holy Rood Day, Gwenn came upon a White Canon from Easby Abbey. He was a garrulous Englishman with a sun-burned face and an unmonkish pride in his French which bordered on boasting. On discovering Gwenn’s fluency in that tongue, the canon eagerly displayed his erudition and spoke at length about his business in Richmond.
Gwenn gave him half an ear, for she was wondering what Alan had been doing this past week. The lovemaking had enchanted her, it had been more sweet and tender than she could ever have imagined. And on their way north, they had made love often after that first, glorious time. Each time it had been different, each time Gwenn had been more and more certain of her feelings. She loved Alan. Not as a friend, not in the gentle, platonic way that she had loved Ned, but deeply, fiercely, passionately. She loved Alan as a woman loves her man. Alan had had as much pleasure out of their union as she had done, she knew he had. She prayed that he reciprocated her feelings and that in time, he would reveal his love for her. But a week had dragged by. What was he doing? Had she misread him?
The canon, Stephen by name, rattled on. ‘It is no private matter, as everyone knows. Sadly, we are in dispute with the castle over milling rights. I have here,’ Canon Stephen patted his chest, ‘a letter from the steward. We are to discuss his answer in chapter, but I fear the matter is far from resolved. If the villagers at Easby prefer the convenience of our mill to that at the castle, I fail to see why they should not use it.’
Gwenn made sympathetic noises, though she understood that the castle miller would not want to lose the revenues gained from grinding the villagers’ meal any more than the canons would. Whatever this canon might say, the row concerned revenues, not the villagers’ convenience.
Canon Stephen seemed to come to the conclusion that he ought not to be discussing the abbey’s business so freely, for he changed the subject, ‘You speak French well, my child.’
‘So I should. My father was French.’
‘And you are newly come from there?’
‘Aye, though I count myself Breton, not French. I lived in Brittany.’
It was then that the canon loosed his thunderbolt.
‘There’s much traffic these days between Richmond and the Continent,’ he said. ‘People arrive almost every day. Yesterday, while I was consulting with the steward, a horseman rode in. He’d ridden across England, having caught ship in Dieppe.’
Gwenn felt a frisson of fear. She hoped the monk was referring to Alan. ‘What was he like this horseman? Was he a little above medium height, with striking dark features, the son of the castle armourer?’
‘You mean Alan le Bret, Ivon’s lad? I remember Alan. He’s back is he?’
‘He rode in last week.’
‘No, I wasn’t talking about Alan,’ the canon said, blithely unaware of the effect his words were having on the girl keeping pace alongside. ‘But this fellow must be a friend of his, because he came up to me and asked me if I’d seen him. I’m afraid I misled him – I didn’t know Alan was back.’
‘What...what did the horseman look like?’
‘Fair as an angel and fierce as St Michael.’
‘Not...not like a Viking?’
‘Very like. Pardon me, are you feeling alright, my child? You’re white as milk.’
Murmuring disjointedly, Gwenn took abrupt leave of the astonished canon and galloped back to Sword Point.
***
Shutters darkened the large, ground-floor room of the farm cottage. Agnes was still abed.
When Gwenn tore in, out of breath and with her hair hanging in a tangle about her cheeks, Agnes sat up in alarm. ‘Gwenn? What’s amiss? You’re pale as marble.’
‘A horseman rode into the castle last night,’ Gwenn said, voice trembling. ‘He’s come straight from Normandy.’
Heaving up on her pillow, Agnes squinted through the gloom at her daughter-in-law. ‘He’s come, no doubt, with a letter from Duchess Constance.’
Agnes had been maid to Duchess Constance before the Duchess had married the King’s son, and now she was her pensioner.
Gwenn drew near to the bed and put both hands to her forehead, clenching her fists so the white bones in her knuckles showed. ‘No. No. I think not, he sounds like a mercenary I knew in Vannes. He must have heard about the statue – he wants the gem.’ Perspiration dampened her temples. ‘And to think I thought it was over. Oh, Agnes, I prayed we’d left all that behind us. I thought a new land would mean a fresh start. That statue will be our deaths, I know it will.’
Gwenn was only sixteen, but at that moment she looked sixty. She was Ned’s wife, and petite though she was, she was carrying his child. In Ned’s absence, it was Agnes’s place to offer her advice. Agnes thought quickly. ‘You could get rid of it.’
‘Rid of it?’ The great, brown eyes were blank.
‘Yes.’
‘But that would be...’ Gwenn trailed off, chewing a nail with desperate savagery.
‘Sacrilege?’ Agnes could see that her daughter-in-law was terrified. There were fine lines around her eyes and mouth that had not been there yesterday. Agnes pulled Gwenn’s finger from her mouth. ‘Don’t do that.’
Gwenn started, jumpy as a hare, and curled her fingers into a fist. ‘Sorry. But would getting rid of the Stone Rose really help? You said yourself – it’s only a statue. Can a statue of the Blessed Virgin harm anyone?’
‘Gwenn, in your heart you know the statue is not the problem. It’s the gemstone that’s attracting trouble.’
‘I’ve come to loathe the Stone Rose.’
‘I can see that. It’s associated with past miseries. But don’t let a lump of pink granite,’ Agnes allowed a sneer to enter her voice, for it would do Gwenn no harm to realise her icon could be mocked, ‘colour your life. It has become an obsession, and it’s blinding you to the real problem, which is the diamond.’ Agnes could not accept that in itself the Stone Rose was evil. But it was Gwenn’s belief that counted, and if Gwenn believed it evil, the statue had best be destroyed.
Gwenn went cold as she thought about it, as she numbered her sorrows. Her eyes skated about over the beaten earth floor, and her mind sought for another way out. She had no option but to hide the gem and get rid of the statue, for while she kept it she was a marked woman, potential prey for every mercenary who had ever heard about the Stone Rose and what it was meant to contain.
She gripped Agnes’s arm. ‘And what about Alan? What do I tell him when he discovers a horseman has been creeping around, asking questions? Do I tell him about the gem? Dare I put it in Alan’s keeping? What if he–?’
‘I think, Gwenn, you should trust Alan.’
Gwenn’s laugh was wild and bitter. ‘Trust Alan? Are your wits addled?’
‘I am his aunt, Gwenn. Never forget that,’ Agnes said. Alan was due a measure of loyalty. And while Agnes knew her nephew had done more than his share of evil, she could not help loving him. And so, she believed, did Gwenn. This would be a test for Gwenn as much as for Alan, but Gwenn was yet to realise this.
Agnes was wrong. Gwenn had realised. Dropping her eyes, she murmured, ‘My apologies.’ She sat silently for a space, thinking. She wanted to trust Alan. She wanted him to love her. But she had never been able to put out of her mind the fact that he had once attempted to take the diamond. If he knew she had it, would he still covet it? Would he affect to love her for it? Did she love Alan enough to trust him, unreservedly? She sucked in a breath, opened her eyes fully, and gave Agnes a direct look. ‘I’ll hide the gem and take the statue to the river.’
‘Aye.’
‘And I’ll take the gamble with Alan. Win all, or lose all.’
Agnes thought it a shame that Gwenn realised how much hung in the balance, for her decision was difficult enough without concerning herself over Alan. Agnes could not help her there. Gwenn had put her finger on it. It was a risk. But if her gamble paid off...
‘At least I’ll know where his loyalties lie,’ Gwenn said, steadily. She squared her shoulders. ‘The waiting will be o
ver. I’ll get rid of it, Agnes, and tell Alan everything. It’s the only thing to do. Then there will be no more wondering. It might even be a relief.’ She moved swiftly to the door.
‘God speed.’ Agnes blessed her with the sign of the cross.
The latch clicked. Light streamed briefly into the farm’s one-roomed cottage and then all was plunged into dimness as the door closed.
***
Agnes sat, patiently waiting for Gwenn to return. She thought about her daughter-in-law.
Agnes no longer had the vigour of her youth and until Gwenn had arrived at Sword Point, she had been lonely. She thought she was dying. Unlike Gwenn, who had her life in front of her, Agnes was not afraid of death. But Gwenn’s arrival had given her something to live for. She liked Gwenn. Ned had proved himself a good judge of character when he chose her to be his wife. Agnes looked forward to meeting her grandchild. The Grim Reaper would come for her soon, but in the meantime she could fill her last days cobbling together some baby linen. Agnes had once sewed court dresses for a duchess, but this simple task was all her weakened eyes could manage now. While she waited for the final sleep to claim her, she would watch her grandchild grow and die content.
***
In the night, the Yorkshire dale had been refreshed with rain. Now the sun was climbing and the meadow grasses shone lush and green. Sheep ambled across the pastures below Sword Point, fluffy white blobs grazing on the rich grasses like slow-moving clouds drifting across a rain-washed sky. While the landscape was beautiful, the farm’s buildings and outhouses were not. They had not been maintained since Ned’s father had died. A mournful air of neglect hung over the place.
Having decided to rid herself of the statue and the evil that had dogged her for years, Gwenn hooked up her skirts and dashed along the pathway which ran between two wooden farm buildings. She stopped at the tall oak whose foreshortened shadow pointed up the hill, pausing only to twist the walnut base from the statue and thrust the pouch deep within a fork of the oak’s spreading roots. She had been quick to learn her way about Sword Point, and headed straight for the River Swale. As she passed the outhouse where Dancer had been hastily stabled, her horse greeted her with a friendly whinny, and such was Gwenn’s state of mind that the familiar sound set her heart thudding. Clutching the statue, she pressed on, working her way round the worm-eaten farm buildings and onto the track. Her mind was a confusion of fears and wishes.
Panting, she checked the path which cut across the dale to the river. It was empty. High in the blue heavens, so high she could not see them, skylarks sang. Closer to earth, a flock of lapwings tumbled into view, vying with each other in athletic, aerobatic displays. Gwenn hurried on, keeping the Stone Rose close to her breast. The mysterious horseman who had ridden in from Brittany could be a messenger from the Duchess as Agnes had suggested, but Gwenn did not think so. If the horseman was fair as an angel and as fierce as St Michael, he sounded very like de Roncier’s Viking captain.
Was he after the gem? Did all of Brittany know her secret? When Alan had questioned her about the Stone Rose, Gwenn suspected he knew. But he had left her with Agnes and the gemstone had remained in her keeping, and Gwenn had concluded that he knew nothing.
If only he had come back to visit her lately, she could have had it out with him. But she had not set eyes on him since he left for Richmond. His neglect was a clear signal of his lack of feeling for her. Agnes believed she should trust him. But Agnes was Alan’s aunt – she looked to see the best in her sister’s son. Gwenn stumbled towards the river. If only Alan was more like Ned, who was, even without the dubbing ceremony, more the perfect knight than any man she’d known.
A couple of bow shots ahead, Gwenn could see beeches and ash trees stretching over the Swale. She could hear the water brawling over the rocky bed as it surged through the dale towards the gully where the waterfall bubbled and frothed like so much brown ale.
Someone gave a shout, and she whirled round. A lone horseman on a great grey was cutting across the pasture; the horse’s hoofs were gouging scoops of emerald turf and throwing them high in the air.
Her mouth went dry. It was not Firebrand, but at this distance Gwenn was unable to make out whether the horseman was fair or dark. Sunlight sparkled on a shiny helmet. Her heart dropped to her belly. A long, fair beard tumbled across a wide, mail-clad chest and the canon’s words came back to her. Fair as an angel and fierce as St Michael.
Stricken with panic, she whirled towards the river, desperate for somewhere to hide, but she would never reach the beech trees in time. She could not outrun that brute of a horse. She halted, turned, and stood her ground. The worst the Viking could do was kill her, and death no longer frightened her, for out of her spinning thoughts one single strand stood stark and clear. The worst had already happened...
Since Gwenn’s arrival, Agnes had expressed a desire to live out the first few days of her grief quietly. Apart from Gwenn’s lonely dawn rides, they had only left the farm to go to Easby village, where they had conversed with the White Canons, no one else. To Gwenn’s knowledge, the only person in Richmond to know she was lodged at Sword Point was Alan; and the only way the Norseman could have found her so quickly after seeing the White Canon was if Alan had betrayed her. Alan must have betrayed her. Set against this, nothing was important; not her life, not even – may God forgive her – the life of the babe in her belly. Gwenn had wanted to trust Alan, had wanted him to be an honourable man. So much for her dreams. She loved a ruthless bastard of a man and he had betrayed her.
Would the Norseman torture her to find out where she had put the gemstone? Would he share the proceeds with Alan?
The horse, a stallion, thundered up to her. The Viking hauled on his reins, and the beast came to a shuddering halt. Hot, horsey breath fanned her face.
‘Well met, Mistress Fletcher,’ Otto Malait flung himself to the ground and dived at her throat. ‘I’ve been scouring all England for you.’
***
Outside Sword Point Farm, Alan dismounted gingerly, groaning in relief when his feet touched firm ground. He had a hangover, and every step of the road from Richmond had set a hammer beating on the anvil of his brain.
He tethered Firebrand to a bay tree in his aunt’s overgrown herb garden. The door was ajar. He rapped his knuckles on it, and the noise made him flinch. His nerves were shredded that morning, and he only had himself to blame. He had run into old drinking companions the evening before and had been drawn into lengthy reminiscences around the forge with his friends and his stepfather. He and Ivon were fully reconciled, and during the course of the evening, much ale had been drunk, and much wine. ‘It’s the combination that’s the killer,’ Alan muttered to himself, angry at his own stupidity.
There was no response from the farmhouse. Agnes was growing deaf. Wincing, Alan knocked once more, and raised his voice, ‘Agnes? Gwenn?’ His throat was as gritty as a mason’s file.
‘In here, Alan. Come straight in.’
Agnes was climbing painstakingly down the stairs from the loft. Alan helped her down the last few rungs. ‘I thought you moved your bed downstairs because you find the stairs a trial.’
Agnes smiled. ‘I do find them a trial.’
Alan led his aunt to the trestle and pulled out a bench for her. ‘You should ask Gwenn if you need something down from the loft. Where is she?’
‘Gone to the river. Didn’t you spot her from the road?’
‘No.’ Alan rubbed sore eyes. ‘I can hardly see out this morning.’
‘Good night, was it, nephew?’
Alan groaned, sank onto the bench, and closed his eyes.
‘Alan, I think you should go and see if Gwenn is safe.’
Weary grey eyes peered past hooded lids. ‘Why shouldn’t Gwenn be safe? She’s only gone to the river.’
‘No, Alan. I think you should go. Something has happened. It’s connected with that blessed statue. She rushed in here talking about messengers from Normandy.’
Her nephew
’s head shot up. ‘Messengers from Normandy? Who?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Alan caught her wrist. ‘Think, Aunt, exactly what did she say?’
‘A White Canon told her a horseman rode in from Dieppe, someone she knew in Vannes. He has been asking questions. Gwenn took the figurine to the river and... Alan?’
The door cracked against its frame, and seeing that she was speaking to an empty room, Agnes shook her head and smiled.
Charging into the yard, Alan remembered his sword. In his befuddled state that morning, he had jammed it under his pack at the back of the saddle. Cursing the few seconds’ delay, he dragged it out, buckled it into place, and flung himself on Firebrand. The farmhouse was surrounded with a split-rail fence to keep the White Canons’ sheep from the cottage garden, and though it was down in places, his route was barred by a gate. Alan dug in his spurs. The courser cleared the gate with ease, and then they were galloping over Swaledale’s springy turf, noses pointed to the river.
The greensward sloped gently away from them. At the bottom, in front of the trees, two figures were struggling. A hulking great warhorse with its reins slack about its head placidly cropped the grass. It was the horse that betrayed to Alan the identity of the mysterious visitor from Normandy. The animal was past its best, a lanky grey, long in the bone, and he recognised it. Otto Malait favoured that horse.
Alan spurred Firebrand and was carried down the hill faster than the wind. Of all people, he wished it were not Otto Malait.
He was almost there, and not a heartbeat too soon, for the Viking’s fingers were a vice round Gwenn’s throat. Her face was puce. She must have knocked Malait’s helmet off, for it lay on the grass, next to the Stone Rose which had been separated from its stand. The wooden shards lay in the grass at Gwenn’s feet. The drawstring pouch was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where is it, girl?’ Otto shook her, easing his grip on her throat to allow her to speak. She hung like a child’s rag doll from his giant’s hands, and let out a groan. Otto renewed his grip, and weakly she tried to free herself.
The Stone Rose Page 55