The Stone Rose (28 page)

‘Do? Do I have to
do
anything?’

‘Aye. I think so.’

She looked puzzled.

‘I’m taking the liberty of telling you this, my dear, because I like you. But the way you have that young man on a leading rein man on is nothing less than a scandal.’

‘L...leading rein?’ Her mouth fell open. ‘But, Uncle, I’ve done nothing!’

Waldin impaled her with his hard gaze. ‘That’s not quite true, my dear, and if you give it but a moment’s thought, I think you’ll agree.’ Gwenn spluttered, but Waldin took no heed and thrust his point home. ‘I know you are young, and I know you are innocent. But unlike your parents, whose love blinds them to your faults, I see you clearly.’ Once more he ran his hand over the back of his head and gave her a wry grin. ‘As I said, I like things out in the open. And fortunately God blessed me with a few brains as well as brawn. That’s why I survived so long on the circuit. That’s why I see you so clearly. It’s no use your using your youth as a shield and hiding behind it.’

‘But, Uncle!’ Gwenn’s small bosom heaved, indignantly. ‘I am innocent, I swear.’

‘Not so innocent that you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re playing with that lad. Leave Sergeant Fletcher alone. He’s not for you.’

Her eyes smouldered. Her lips formed a resentful pout. ‘You’re beginning to sound like my father.’

‘I’ve not done, my girl. When I’ve had my say, you can have yours.’

She subsided, simmering.

‘Sergeant Fletcher’s not for you,’ Waldin allowed an understanding smile to lift one side of his mouth, ‘and the reason has nothing to do with his birth, and everything to do with the fact that you would swallow him up in one bite. Forget your pride, Gwenn. Let the lad go. Let him find someone more suited.’

‘Hell’s Teeth!’ Gwenn borrowed one of her brother’s curses. ‘What has pride to do with it?’

The smile reached the champion’s brown eyes, warming them to a rich mahogany. ‘Don’t swear, Gwenn. It doesn’t look pretty on you.’

‘Because I’m a girl,’ she said, nettled, ‘and girls mustn’t swear.’

Waldin was not tempted to go skirmishing down that blind alley. ‘It doesn’t look pretty on you. Think, Gwenn. Pride has a lot to do with it. Admit it. You love Ned Fletcher–’

She choked. ‘What?’

‘Hold your horses. You love Ned Fletcher’s being in love with you. You don’t love Fletcher himself, I’m well aware of that. It’s play to you.’ He leaned closer and took her arm, eyes serious. ‘But it’s not play to the Saxon. The lad truly loves you. Don’t hurt him. Find someone more like yourself to flirt with, someone who sees it as you do, as a game. Ned Fletcher doesn’t know the rules. You, however,’ the smile was back and with something approaching real affection Waldin flicked her nose, ‘were born knowing them.’

Gwenn swallowed, and Waldin had to hold down a laugh. He could see the struggle going on within her while she debated whether or not to be offended. He grinned. ‘And if you toss your head at me, I swear I’ll have you in that trough.’

She beat a hasty retreat. ‘Uncle, you wouldn’t!’

He raised an impudent brow. ‘Try me.’ Her shoulders began to shake. Her hand came up and hid a smile. She would do, he decided; a sterling girl.

‘Wretch!’ The sterling girl let out a throaty giggle. ‘And to think I expected my famous uncle to be the perfect, chivalrous knight.’

Waldin sighed hugely. ‘Life can be disappointing.’

‘It can. But your criticism is just,’ she admitted with admirable candour, and groped to express exactly how she felt. ‘I like Sergeant Fletcher, but as for loving him...’

‘There’s something missing, isn’t there?’ Waldin supplied gently. The look in her eyes told him he had hit the target.

‘Aye. I like his looks, his manners, his...everything, but,’ she spread slim hands, ‘perhaps the bit that’s missing doesn’t exist, except in my own mind?’ She looked to him for an answer, but Waldin didn’t have one to give her. She must find her own answers. ‘I’ll let Ned alone. You’ve helped me see how wrong I have been.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘But life will be tedious, Uncle.’

‘No it won’t. Pick someone else to play with.’

She made an impatient noise. ‘Who else is there? Ned is the only man around here who’s half way personable.’

Her uncle looked pained and struck his deep, barrel chest. ‘What about me? Ah, Gwenn, your insult cuts me to the quick. I’m standing before you, and you don’t even see me.’ He kept a straight face. ‘Look at
me,
Gwenn. I won’t make the cardinal sin of taking it to heart. I know it’s a game. I’m your uncle. You’d be safe with me.’

‘But you’re so...’ She flushed.

‘Ugly?’

Gwenn’s colour deepened, and she lowered her eyes. ‘My pardon, Uncle.’

Unperturbed, Waldin went down on one knee. ‘Fair lady,’ he said with a splendid flourish. ‘I beg you to grant me the honour of being your chevalier.’ He rolled his eyes in idiotic longing.

Gwenn felt a bubble of laughter rise within her.

‘I dream,’ Waldin was warming to his role, ‘of your long, dark tresses; of your eyes, dark and deep as pools in the wood.’

This last was too much. Frantically, she bit her lips, but a giggle escaped. ‘This is ridiculous.’

Waldin got up and dusted his knee. ‘But amusing? Not boring?’

‘Not in the least.’

‘So, my niece. You see how it can be fun, even with an ugly old bear like myself. And now that we have that settled, I want you to tie your favour round my arm, and I’ll take you, my lady,’ he bowed so low his forehead almost touched the ground, ‘for a ride.’

Obediently, Gwenn pulled a ribbon from one of her plaits and wound it round a well-muscled arm. ‘About the ride, Uncle, I had other plans.’ Gwenn had no liking for Waldin’s brutish warhorse, Emperor. He was a big devil whose coat shone like polished ebony. He terrorised the other horses in the stable, and broke his fast by taking chunks out of the grooms. Gwenn valued her skin enough to stay clear of him.

‘Surely a brave girl like you is not afraid of a horse?’ Waldin asked, innocently.

‘Afraid?’ About to deny his accusation, Gwenn caught the knowing gleam in her uncle’s eyes. ‘I’m not afraid of horses in general, but aye, I’m afraid of Emperor. That one is more dragon than horse, and I’d not go near him if I was offered all the gold in the duchy.’ Her chin inched up, daring him to mock her, but instead she saw approval in his eyes.

‘It takes courage to admit to fear,’ he said. ‘And I would far rather have a courageous girl as my niece, than some prissy little
mademoiselle
who lies through her teeth.’ He buckled on his sword. ‘You’re a saucy baggage. I like you, but you’re a saucy baggage.’ And chucking her with rough, ungallant affection under the chin, he marched to the stables and ducked through the door.

Gwenn rubbed her chin and grimaced. Waldin did not know his own strength. Remembering what she had come out to do, she crossed to the iron gateway which led into the churchyard. She was going to the wood to gather flowers for her mother. The bluebells were out, and the great yellow buttercups; and in the hidden, secret places, sweet violets, with purple, velvety petals, and lightly veined wood anemones. There was hawthorn and blackthorn too, but she would not pick those for her mother’s posy, since they were unlucky.

Jean had reclaimed some of the land the trees had engulfed since his father’s time, cutting back the undergrowth on the northernmost margin of the glebeland and turning it into an orchard. The saplings were young and spindly, but the sap was rising and they had burst into blossom. Gwenn loved the forest, but was not permitted beyond St Félix’s Monastery without an escort. Her father had warned her about the dangers both from outlaws hiding out in the woods and from wolves and wild boar that were known in the area.

As she walked through the churchyard towards the apple trees, a woodpecker drummed deep in the forbidden reaches of the forest. Nearer to hand, two squabbling sparrows flew tight circles round each other above the church roof, tumbling over each other as they somersaulted down the reed-thatched roof – furious, chirping balls of flying feathers and pecking beaks.

Dew-drenched grass tugged at her skirts. The cool, woody fragrance of the apple trees soothed her senses. Leaving the orchard behind her, another, more pungent smell wrinkled her nostrils. The wild garlic was out, too. A faint smile flickered across her lips. ‘No garlic for Mama either,’ she thought aloud, ‘I want only sweet smelling, lucky flowers. My mother deserves the best that there is, for today is her day.’

T
he wedding took place at noon. Being a brief ceremony performed at the church gate by Prior Hubert who had been winkled out of his sylvan retreat, it was over almost as soon as it had begun. The prior was invited to the celebration afterwards but, a hermit at heart, he was unused to worldly folk and had a strong dislike of crowds and noise. Politely, he declined the honour. Yolande pressed him into taking a gift of food to share with his brothers, and after some gentle persuasion the prior accepted her bounty. And no sooner had his duty as priest been discharged, than the holy man sketched a cross over the heads of the assembly and scuttled back into the safety of the cool, slow-moving shadows in the forest.

It was expected that the feasting would stretch on well into the night. Everyone was welcome; and because it was not only the lord of the manor’s wedding but May Day also, it promised to be an uproarious event. After the austerities of Lent, the household had been looking forward to it. None doubted that it would be remembered for years to come.

The St Clair family processed from churchyard to hall. The first to follow them was Denis the Red, who pushed his way to the front of the retainers. He drew up in the doorway, greedy eyes popping like a horse that had chanced on a field of pink clover. The trestles were clothed in spotless linen. Swags of shiny green ivy decked the cloths, and tucked into the ivy were dainty bouquets of bluebells and sprigs of apple blossom. It was not the foliage however, that caught the soldier’s eye; it was the sheer quantity of food. It quite took his breath away. There was roast beef, steaming gently from the fire; a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth; a showy dressed peacock which Denis knew looked better than it tasted. There were duck and geese by the score. There were jellied eels, loaves by the dozen, large round cheeses, saladings, custards, sweetmeats. A grin of delight spread slowly across the plump, freckled face. Denis’s hand crept to his belt and deftly he undid it a notch or two.

‘When you’ve quite finished drooling,’ Ned said in his ear, ‘you might move along.’

Eyes glazed, Denis the Red stumbled to a bench. It was Paradise, and he hardly knew where to begin. A tower of trenchers was stacked at one end of the table. He took the top one.

Ned, as Red’s sergeant, should by rights have taken the upper crust, but no slight had been intended and Ned let it pass. Settling beside Red, he reached for a wine jar and poured himself a measure. ‘You must find Lent an ordeal,’ he said, glancing at the festoons of flowers, which he knew to be Gwenn and Katarin’s handiwork, for he’d seen the girls at work that morning.

Pained folds creased the plump cheeks. ‘Don’t mention Lent,’ Red groaned. ‘You’ll give me indigestion. Lent’s Hell on earth.’ He stuck his fingers in the waist of his braies, which since he had undone his belt, hung in loose, baggy folds. ‘Look, I’m a shadow of the man I was. That’s what Lent does for me. My breeches are falling off.’

Sir Jean had given the signal for everyone to begin. Ned tasted the wine. Since leaving England, he had learned a thing or two about wine. This one was a good Burgundy, rich and mellow. St Clair was generous with his men. Ned glanced towards the knight, sitting on the special high dais that had been made expressly for today’s festivities. Sir Jean happened to be looking in his direction. Smiling, and careful to keep his eyes from Mistress Gwenn, Ned raised his cup in acknowledgement of the wine and the compliment St Clair paid his men that day. It was an open-handed gesture that not many men in his position would have bothered to make, especially when one considered that there was not likely to be a sober head among them in half an hour’s time, not sober enough at any rate to tell the difference between good wine and vinegar. ‘Aye,’ Ned murmured softly, ‘Lent’s over for another year.’ Casually, he twitched a cluster of the apple blossom from the ivy and tucked it into his sleeve.

Later, when bellies were full – most of them over-full – Ned judged that enough wine had been downed for no one to care where his eyes wandered. Inevitably his gaze was pulled to the top table. Lady St Clair, as Yolande Herevi must now be called, sat between her husband and his brother. Her gown was of cream silk brocade trimmed with gold braid. She was laughing, her face was alight with happiness. Ned had never seen her looking so well. As was the custom, Gwenn, in the bright blue she favoured, was further down the board, sharing her meats with her brother. Her cheeks were flushed with the good burgundy wine, and her head was flung back. She was laughing too, at something Sir Waldin had said. Her veil, held in place by a slim circlet of flowers, was slipping. The champion leaned across the trestle and gave one of her thick, brown plaits an affectionate tweak. Favouring her uncle with a slow smile, Gwenn twitched her hair out of his hand and tucked it demurely beneath her veil. Ned felt his stomach twist and gulped down another mouthful of wine. What he wouldn’t give for the right to sit at her side.

‘Pretty, isn’t she, Ned?’ Red nudged him in the ribs, a knowing expression in his eyes.

Ned coloured to the roots of his hair, but he drew himself up. Ignoring Red’s snatching the top trencher was one thing, but he could not let this pass. ‘Sergeant Fletcher to you, Red,’ he said, more sharply than he had intended.

Red raised a russet brow. The wine had made him careless of the fact that he was Ned’s subordinate. ‘Hark at you.’ He grinned familiarly. ‘You’ll be trying for a knighthood next.’

Ned ground his teeth. Red was impertinent, but it was all the more galling because there was a grain of truth in his remark. Ned did dream that perhaps, if he won favour, he might better himself. It flashed in on Ned that his cousin Alan le Bret would not stand for such insolence. Alan would have had a man flogged for less. Aware that he had supped a drop more wine that was wise, and that his command of his temper was slipping, Ned sucked in a breath, and counted to ten. Today was meant to be a celebration, and he was not about to sour it. He moderated his tone. ‘In any case, you’re wrong.’ A white lie might put Red off the scent. ‘I was looking at Lady St Clair. She looks about sixteen.’ This last was no less than the truth. She did look sixteen, her eyes were sparkling every bit as brightly as her daughter’s.