The Stone Rose (12 page)

‘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.’

‘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.’