The Stone Rose (49 page)

‘I would never have thought it possible, Brother Marzin, but I miss that mule.’ The monk snapped an overlong branch into more manageable pieces. ‘I regret Prior Hubert’s selling of him.’

The other monk laughed and waved at the baskets. ‘You miss the mule because he carried these, Dominig,’ he said.

‘No, Marzin, it’s more than that. That mule belonged to my father. I shall miss him when I go to the river.’ To Brother Dominig’s delight, Prior Hubert had given him permanent charge of the fish tanks and eel traps.

‘That mule was an intractable beast.’

‘I brought him from home. I liked him.’

‘Theirs was the greater need, Brother Dominig.’

Conan gave a silent, cavernous yawn.

‘Aye, so it was. I cannot deny that. Poor girl. So young and left to shoulder so much responsibility.’

Mid-yawn, Conan stiffened and strained to hear. Girl? What girl? To his intense annoyance, he saw the dirty white cur creep into the corner of his vision. He had thought he had foisted the animal off on Johanna. Motioning the dog away, Conan prayed it would not betray him. His poorly stomach churned.

‘True.’ The monk named Marzin had a strong voice which was easy to hear despite its foreign lilt. ‘But consider, Dominig, how God provided for her. He gave her Ned Fletcher to share her burden, and then my brother arrived.’

Wondering who the monk’s brother was, and how he fitted into this, Conan listened for more. He remembered Ned Fletcher. Was this monk English, like Ned Fletcher?

‘I cannot help wondering,’ Dominig mused, ‘why God permitted the Count to destroy Mistress Gwenn’s home in the first place. If He was so eager to provide for her, why did He allow that to happen?’

‘Brother Dominig!’ Marzin clucked disapproval.

Conan heard the reproof implicit in the young monk’s tone, but skulking behind the hazel, with a wary eye on the wretched dog and an obstructed view of the two monks, he was unable to see the affectionate mockery in Brother Marzin’s eyes.

‘It’s only a day since you took your vows, and already you are questioning His will.’

Another log thudded into a basket. Furtively parting the branches, Conan saw that one of the monks, presumably Dominig, had his lips set in a straight line. ‘Mock me if you will, Marzin,’ he said miserably. ‘But try as I might, I cannot understand how God can be so cruel.’

Marzin went over to his companion. ‘It’s man that is cruel, Dominig, not the Almighty.’

Dominig gazed for a moment at Marzin’s round, open countenance. ‘You are blessed, Brother, you have such faith. Would that I had a tenth of your faith.’

Marzin’s plump face was split by a smile. ‘Faith upholds me, when all else fails.’

‘But, Marzin–’

Marzin shook his pale, newly tonsured crown. ‘Not now, Dominig, the kindling is needed in the cookhouse.’

Obediently, Dominig scanned the clearing, his eyes chancing on a fallen branch in front of Conan’s hazel hide. Crossing over, he scooped up the bough. Conan’s belly cramped with the fear of imminent discovery, but the monk merely straightened and reverted to his original theme. ‘What do you think they will do with my mule when they reach their journey’s end?’

‘
Your
mule?’ Marzin said, lifting an eyebrow. ‘We hold all our possessions in common, Dominig, have you forgot?’

‘I haven’t forgotten, Marzin.’ Dominig’s reply was almost sharp. ‘But that animal did belong to my father. I brought him with me when I joined as a novice. I can’t help it if I am attached to him.’

‘Don’t you think your attachment to that animal might in part be the reason Prior Hubert gave him up so easily?’ Marzin asked. ‘In selling him, he broke your bondage to the past.’

‘But it’s a long way they’re taking him.’

Where are they taking him? Behind his bush, Conan willed the dog to keep still. He willed the monks to supply him with the answer he needed. Where? Where were they going?

‘Not so far,’ Marzin reassured his brother. ‘Ploumanach is only five days away the way your mule plods.’

‘Ploumanach,’ Conan breathed, and a slow smile spread across his weathered face. ‘Ploumanach.’ In Breton, Ploumanach meant ‘place of the monks’, and that didn’t tell Conan its location. He hadn’t the foggiest idea where Ploumanach was, but he would find out.

‘Five days away?’ Brother Dominig’s knowledge of distant places, like most people’s, was limited to a ten-mile radius of his home, in his case the monastery. Anything outside that he knew about in only the most hazy terms.

‘Relax, Ploumanach is in Brittany, Dominig,’ Marzin replied with a laugh. ‘Your mule is still in Christendom.’

Conan had the information he had come for. ‘Ploumanach,’ he muttered. ‘Ploumanach.’ And holding the branches aside with finger and thumb, he stole from the clearing.

If he did what was expected of him, he should hand this information on to Captain Malait together with what Johanna had told him about the jewel, but he was pulled two ways. Was it likely that the Viking’s reward would come anywhere near the value of the gem? If it turned out to be half the size that Johanna had said, it would be worth a fortune.

The little white cur nudged his heels. About to lash out, it occurred to Conan that the mongrel, by not betraying his presence to the monks, was learning sense. He deserved a reward. Ferreting a heel of wheat loaf and a chunk of meat from his scrip, Conan threw them to the dog which devoured them in two famished bites.

Conan thought hard as he strode through the trees. Was this the moment to break away from de Roncier? He had been thinking that it was time he did something for himself, and this jewel of Gwenn Herevi’s was a godsend – if it existed.

Conan understood that such a betrayal would mean exile from his home, for the Count had a long memory; but Conan was rootless. He did not feel bound to Vannes and Southern Brittany any more than he felt bound to his sister Johanna. He spared the sibling he had so casually abandoned in the disreputable hostelry no more than a passing thought. He was not his sister’s keeper, and in any case, the girl was no innocent – had she not already born a child? Johanna could fend for herself.

The pedlar wavered, unable quite to take the final decision to strike out in a new direction. ‘Ploumanach. Ploumanach,’ he muttered imprinting the name in his mind. ‘Shall we go there, boy?’ he asked the dog, whose canine eyes were riveted on his feeder. The stumpy tail wagged, eagerly. Assuming the jewel existed, suppose it was lost or sold by the time he reached Ploumanach? He would have thrown away a spasmodic but fairly regular source of money by alienating Captain Malait. It was a risk. On the other hand, if he got his hands on the gem, he would never have to worry about where the next crust was coming from.

Conan came to a decision.

***

It was the middle of the afternoon, and Philippe, who had spent the morning either dozing or gazing up at the nodding leaves, had tired of the novelty of the ride. His crying had at first been petulant and fretful, but now he was working himself up into a genuine rage, kicking his legs against the wrapping which held him immobile in his sister’s arms.

Alan, coming at length to the conclusion that St Clair’s heir was not going to cry himself to sleep, reined back. ‘Do you want to stop?’

Gwenn flung him a grateful look, eyes harassed, hair in disarray, as she juggled with reins and infant’s coverlet. ‘Could we, Alan? Do you think it’s safe?’

Alan dismounted. ‘A few minutes won’t hurt,’ he said, stretching like a cat and coming towards her. ‘We could all do with a change.’

‘Philippe is not used to being confined. He doesn’t normally cry like this, but he’s learning to crawl, and he finds the restrictions irksome.’

Reaching Gwenn first, Ned took her reins from her and wound them round a branch before lifting Philippe from her lap. As soon as the baby was placed on the ground and his coverlet removed, the crying stopped.

‘Knows his own mind, doesn’t he?’ Alan said, and seeing Ned was intent on the baby, he offered Gwenn his hand with a gallant flourish. ‘Lady Blanche?’

Gwenn slid to the ground in front of Alan and his hands went to her waist, steadying her. Alan’s lips were framing a light, flirtatious remark, when something about the closeness of her, and the pink in her cheeks, gave him pause. For a moment he was whisked back two years to the time they had sheltered in the Locmariaquer dolmen and, as then, he felt faint stirrings of alarm. They had kissed then, they must not do so again. Carefully, Alan peeled his hands from her too-willowy waist and stepped back.

Privately he agreed with Ned, Gwenn was pretty, but Alan had never found resisting prettiness difficult; looks did not count for much. Prettiness, like flowers, soon faded. But this past day, he had seen another side of Gwenn, a side he had always suspected was there. He had watched how she put her brother and sister’s needs before her own, and he had seen the determination with which she battled on against the odds. He must repress his growing feeling for her. What would she think if she knew the way his thoughts were tending? Would she be shocked? Once or twice Alan had caught her eyes on him, and they had been glowing like dark amber. Unconsciously, he sighed. He must stop this, now, before it became too painful. He could not hurt Ned. Gwenn was Ned’s wife.

Seeing the frown darkening his brow, Gwenn misinterpreted the reason for it. ‘I’m sorry, Alan. We are making slower progress than you anticipated. It will be many days before you can rejoin your Duke.’

Gwenn’s mouth... Her lips were rosy, and slightly parted. She was flushed from the ride, and looked very desirable. Though there were at least two paces between them, Alan could feel the heat of her body. His scowl deepened while he tried to recall when he had last enjoyed a woman. It seemed an age ago. It was obviously time he found one, and the sooner the better. But would another woman’s mouth look as tempting as Gwenn’s?

‘Alan?’ Ned brought Alan back to earth with a thud.

‘Aye?’ Whatever was the matter with him? A harmless flirtation with Ned’s wife was one thing, but adultery was out of the question. It had never held any appeal for Alan, even before he had discovered the truth of his birth. Learning that the man he had adored as his father was in fact his stepfather, had only strengthened this conviction. Gwenn Herevi – no, that was wrong, she was Gwenn Fletcher now and he must strive to remember that – Gwenn Fletcher, tempting though she was, was not for him.

‘Pass Katarin down, would you?’

Moving to the mule, Alan obliged, and the little girl gave him one of her rare smiles. Under the concerned gaze of the three adults, Katarin crossed to where her brother was crawling in the leaves.

Alan heard Gwenn’s sigh, and Ned must have done too, for he put an arm round her and pulled her to his side. ‘She’ll heal, Gwenn,’ Ned murmured, kissing her ear. Gwenn coloured, and threw a self-conscious glance at Alan; and Alan began loosening his horse’s girth.

‘Alan?’

‘Yes, mistress?’ Ned’s arm was draped round her shoulders and it looked as though it belonged there.

‘Is there a village nearby?’

‘There’s nothing for at least seven miles. Then we reach Pontivy. Why?’

Pontivy was a flourishing market town, and one of the larger settlements in the vicinity, complete with small military garrison under command of the Rohan family.

Gwenn’s lips turned down at the edges. ‘I...I’d hoped to persuade you to find a physician to examine Katarin.’

‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ Ned objected swiftly. ‘Malait might be hot on our trail. We should wait until we arrive at Ploumanach.’

Unhappily, Gwenn nodded. ‘I expect you’re right. But Alan could go to the town. They can’t know Alan is with us. And won’t sound silver buy us a healer we can trust to keep his mouth shut?’

‘We should keep our eyes and ears open for the rest of the afternoon,’ Alan said, remembering the Knights of St John had a hospital at Pontivy. ‘If by the time we make camp we have not seen anything to alarm us, I think a visit to the town might be in order. We’ll probably be out of food by then and will need more supplies, especially for the babe. In view of the circumstances, I agree it has to be me who ventures into Pontivy.’ It had also occurred to Alan that he could find himself a woman. The presence of the Rohan garrison virtually guaranteed that there would be whores a-plenty. He saw nothing wrong with the trade they plied. In his mind, good old-fashioned lust was perfectly natural, and no sin. Fornication between two consenting adults, both of whom knew the precautions that had to be taken – where was the wrong in that? It was adultery that was fraught with perils, that and sex that took no heed of the consequences.

‘Will we reach Pontivy by nightfall?’ Gwenn asked.

‘Unless that mule turns lame.’

‘Perhaps...perhaps you could exchange Ned’s mule in the town for something more comfortable?’

Alan looked consideringly at the mule. Without doubt the animal had seen better days. ‘That will cost you too,’ he said doubtfully, ‘and a deal more than any physician. Do you have any idea how much a horse costs? Why, I’ve seen knights forced to ride around on mules that make a prince of Ned’s beast.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Alan, I told you. We have money.’

That mouth, even when she was angry...

‘No, Gwenn!’ Ned objected, warmly. ‘This mule does me very well.’

‘Don’t lie, Ned. It does not do well at all. It’s a flea-bitten, crabby old thing, and I’d like you to have a horse like Alan’s.’

Alan laughed to hear her assume that the courser belonged to him. ‘This is not my horse, Gwenn. Firebrand is on loan from Duke Geoffrey.’

Ned took Gwenn’s chin and tipped her face to his. ‘We’re not wasting money on a horse for me.’

‘Whose money is it?’ she said, thrusting her bottom lip forwards.

‘Why yours, you know that,’ Ned answered equably. ‘And we must save it, not waste it on a horse for me.’

Like St Jerome, Ned seemed to have a limitless supply of patience and his own brand of determination. When making her marriage vows Gwenn must have sworn to obey her husband, and if Alan were Ned, he’d not hesitate to command her obedience and have done. But he was not Ned, and he was not married to Gwenn.