The Stone Rose (8 page)

‘Enough,
madame
.’

Gripping her stick, Marie jerked her head furiously in Lena’s direction. She’d not be belittled before a peasant trollop, language barrier or no. ‘Lena!’

‘My lady?’

‘Go and prepare me a posset, will you?’

‘Aye, my lady. Would you like cinnamon or cl–’

‘Anything, anything.’ An imperious wave sent the girl scurrying to the door. ‘Just see that it’s hot. Take it to my chamber and wait for me there.’

‘Aye, my lady.’ Lena curtsied and went out.

‘Now,
ma mère
, where were we?’ the Count asked.

‘I think you were talking murder.’

The red-bristled chin lifted. ‘Not murder, politics. I’ll have them out of Vannes.’

‘And if they won’t go?’

‘They’ll go.’

Marie impaled her son with her eyes. ‘I want no killing.’

‘And if St Clair marries his slut?’

The Countess gave a strained, incredulous laugh. ‘Knights don’t marry their mistresses. St Clair isn’t witless. It would be social suicide. Think of the potential allies he’d lose.’

François stumped across the room to the side-board where red wine from Poitou was glowing in a costly glass decanter imported from the East. Beside it, on a pewter tray, waited a set of matching goblets. François lifted a glass and poured himself a measure. Cupping the bowl of the glass in his hands, he swirled the liquid round. The wine was better warmed.

Turning round to rest her arms on the table, Marie gazed at the saints carved round the sides of her grandaughter’s box, lost in her memories. ‘Who would have thought that my sister’s infatuation with a squire would have led to this?’

‘Forget Izabel,
ma mère
, she’s mad. She must be to have married a squire when she should have married a count.’

Marie swallowed and idly drew Arlette’s puzzle box towards her. ‘It was a dreadful time. Robert was betrothed to Izabel, but it was I who loved him. And all along Izabel had eyes for one man – Gwionn Herevi.’ Drawing a shaky breath, the dark eyes lifted to meet her son’s. They were steady eyes, proud eyes. ‘Do you think it was easy living with your father all those years, knowing I was never more than second best?’

‘Father loved you,’ François said, wishing now to make amends for his earlier wounding statement.

Marie made a negative gesture. ‘No, François, what you said was no less than the truth. Robert loved Izabel.’

‘Oh, Christ, Mother, I’m sorry for what I said. I did not mean... I was angry. I don’t like being questioned.’

Slowly Marie shook her head. ‘I was never any more than a clause in a contract Robert felt bound to honour. He could not have my elder sister, but he had made an agreement with my family and being an honourable man, he kept it. He married me in Izabel’s place. And I loved him so much. I was glad to be his wife, for I’d always adored him. I wanted him to profit by his alliance with me. When our brother died and Izabel as the eldest daughter should have inherited, I thought it fitting that Robert should have her lands when she never claimed them. I didn’t want him to have married me for nothing.’

‘No, not for nothing. I’m certain he–’

‘Came to love me for my own sweet self?’

François stared hard at the thin line that was his mother’s mouth. ‘As it happens, yes. I’m sure Father did come to love you. Besides, you did not go to him empty-handed. You brought your own dowry.’

Marie’s harsh laugh cut in. ‘Aye, but next to the de Wirce patrimony, my dowry was a paltry thing. I wanted to give Robert more. And now that your father is gone, those lands–’

‘Are mine. And I aim to keep them.’

Marie sighed, tapping her fingers on Arlette’s box. She had mixed feelings about her sister, but she did not want Izabel and her family murdered. Jealousy had twisted her emotions, and more than once in the past she
had
wished Izabel dead, but she had never meant it. ‘You know, François,’ she leaned her chin on her hand, ‘you’re wasting effort on what in reality is a minor matter. They’re small game.’

A scowl scored deep furrows in François’ forehead. ‘Small? I must be sure,
ma mère
, so when Eleanor bears me a son–’

‘Naturally,’ Marie agreed. Now was not the time to dispute Eleanor’s depressing lack of fertility. She picked up the puzzle box. When it was new it had kept Arlette amused for hours. It had come back from the Lebanon as part of a crusader’s booty; and it had probably been designed to be a reliquary box. It opened only when three of the Saints haloes were depressed at the same time. ‘But, consider, François, if we consult with our peers, I think you might find we have the law on our side. Izabel was in default, and we...you are in possession.’ A peek at her son’s disgruntled face told her that he was not won over. A man of action, words never counted for much with him.

‘Mother, don’t think I’ll balk at acting without your support.’

‘I don’t,’ Marie admitted tersely. ‘I don’t want a whelp of St Clair’s lording it over us on our holdings any more than you do.’

The hazel eyes gleamed. ‘Today was calculated to scare them off, once and for all.’

Marie bent her head and applied pressure to three of the carved haloes. Nothing happened. It was a clever toy. She tried another combination. ‘What will you do next?’

‘Watch them run.’

‘And if they do not?’

‘They’ll run,’ François said with conviction. ‘I’m sending my men there again tomorrow at noon.’

Marie threw her son a sharp look. Worry gnawed at her insides, as for the first time it struck her that she might not be able to control her son now that his father had gone to God. François’ nostrils were flaring. He was losing patience, and the hot embers were glowing in his cheeks. She must step warily. ‘Izabel’s foolish marriage caused bloodshed once,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t want anyone else to die over this.’

‘Bloodshed,
ma mère
?’

Bending over the Lebanese box, Marie murmured, ‘Gwionn was killed, or had you forgotten?’

He had not forgotten. ‘Your brother, Tanguy, challenged him to a duel.’

‘Aye. Tanguy refused to believe Izabel de Wirce had married a landless squire. He killed Gwionn, and Izabel fled. Mama caught her leaving, and though it broke her heart, she did not prevent her going. Mama gave Izabel her statue of Our Lady. Mama loved that statue.’

François could see his mother’s eyes were full of ghosts.

‘Mama should have given the statue to me, for I stayed and tried to put right what Izabel had put wrong.’

Forbearing to point out that it had suited his mother to stay and ‘put things right’ as she had designs on Count Robert de Roncier, François tossed back another glassful of wine.

Marie was silent, thinking about the statue. There had been something unusual about it... At that moment Arlette’s box slid open. ‘Aha! Done it!’ she exclaimed delightedly, and peered inside. The box was empty but for the spicy scent of cedar of Lebanon. ‘Oh, that smell, it takes me back years. The base of Mother’s statue held that same tangy perfume, it must have been made from the same wood.’ And, like Arlette’s box, the base of the statue had opened. Picking her brains, Marie extracted a vague child’s recollection of her mother conjuring a gem as if from the heart of the Virgin. The child that she had been had thought it magic. Magic. Lurching to her feet, leaning heavily on her cane, Marie hobbled to her son. If she did but know it, for a second her black eyes shone with the cunning of a fox scenting its prey.

‘Mother?’

Marie blinked the look away, but her eyes remained bright. ‘There’s a secret compartment in the base of the statue, François! A gemstone is concealed there.’

‘In the Blessed Virgin?’ François stroked the tawny stubble on his chin. ‘Your imagination is running away with you. Izabel’s piety is legendary in Vannes. She would not mock Our Lady in such a way.’

The thin lips smiled, confidently. ‘No, François. It was my mother’s device, not Izabel’s. My mother, Andaine, had the gem put there to keep it from Father. Arlette’s toy has put me in mind of it. That fragrance...that distinctive fragrance...’

François was wondering if his father’s death had unhinged his mother. Her eyes were as sharp as her bodkin, she
appeared
to be in sound mind...

‘I’d forgotten about the jewel,’ Marie continued. ‘As a child I did not know its worth. At the time I thought it simply a pretty toy, but it’s big, François, big as a blackbird’s egg. It should have been mine. Why should Izabel have had that
and
Robert’s love? She had it all.’

‘
Ma mère
, the house she lives in, though adequate, hardly speaks of a life of luxury.’

‘Good.’ This with spite.

Wearily, Count François poured another goblet of wine and wished that skirmishing with his mother was less debilitating.

The fire crackled and a log shifted, sending up a small tower of sparks. ‘I’d wager they’ve not sold it,’ Marie added.

‘What, after all these years?’ François scoffed. ‘Mother, if Izabel ever had such a jewel, which I doubt, it’s been long gone.’

Marie lifted her chin. ‘There was a gem, and Izabel would have kept it. I know her miserly nature. She’d not part with anything unless she had to. First she and Yolande were in that convent, and no sooner had they left, than Yolande took up with St Clair. They have the gem. I feel it in my bones.’

‘Dear Lord, spare me from women’s instincts.’ François stared at the ruby liquid glinting in the delicate glass and fought to keep his temper.

‘I want that statue,’ Marie said. And so she would not be fobbed off, she placed herself directly before him. ‘You must – how shall I put it? You must reappropriate it before my sister and her family leave Vannes.’

Her son knuckled bleary hazel eyes, and did not respond.

‘François?’ Marie cracked her cane on the floor. ‘Show some grit, will you?’

Jerkily, he crashed his priceless, fragile goblet onto the table, but by some miracle it remained whole. ‘Grit? Grit? Blood of Christ,
madame
, you wrong me! I’m the one who wants to make a clean sweep of things. It is you who is ever yapping caution, caution. All I want is to keep my father’s lands.’

Unmoved, Marie shook her cane at him. ‘You
have
your father’s lands. Sweet Jesu, if it weren’t for the fact that I birthed you myself, I’d wonder sometimes whose son you were. You’ve less brains than a sheep. I’ve told you, François, you’ll never have to defer to St Clair on the de Wirce lands. They don’t have a case to answer. We’ve held uncontested title for thirty years. All I’m asking you to do is not to harm Izabel’s family. And I want that statue.’

‘I’d prefer to cut my way out of this mess cleanly. Getting the statue will slow things down, it will cause unnecessary complications’

‘So? Let it.’ Marie’s thin lips curved. ‘Counts can afford complications.’

Reluctantly, François capitulated. There would be no peace in his castle until his mother had Andaine’s statue. ‘Very well. If it pleases you, you shall have it. But I still intend pushing them out of Vannes.’

‘My thanks.’ The black eyes that stared past the proud nose were unwavering. ‘If you feel you must push the Herevis out, then I’ll not try to sway you, but I want your sworn oath they’ll come to no harm.’

‘Very well,
ma mère
. I’ll not touch a hair on their heads. I’ll swear it on Father’s tomb if necessary, but if the day ever dawns when St Clair
marries
Yolande Herevi, I shall consider that vow void.’

Marie allowed a complacent smile to soften the lines on her face. ‘There’s not the remotest possibility of St Clair marrying Yolande Herevi. I told you, knights don’t marry their concubines. Even St Clair wouldn’t stoop so low. Will you get the statue tomorrow?’

François held down a sigh. ‘Don’t bleat. If the gem is there, it’s as good as in your grasp.’

The thin mouth was prim again. ‘It’s my mother’s statue of Our Lady, that I want, François. The jewel is incidental.’

François was not deceived, though he knew better than to admit it. His mother was evening up old scores.

Someone tapped on the door which led via the stairwell to the main hall below. Mother and son exchanged conspiratorial glances. The door was ajar and the flickering torchlight illuminated the padded leather gambeson of a mercenary captain. Alan le Bret was waiting to see his lord.

‘Damn! How much he has heard?’ François muttered. He had never found Alan le Bret an easy man to read. He raised his voice. ‘What is it, Captain?’

‘A word only,
mon seigneur
, no more.’ On entering, Alan le Bret sketched a graceful bow in Countess Marie’s direction. ‘My apologies,
madame
, for interrupting you.’

The man has removed his sword, François noted resentfully. He was astonished to see his mother respond to the mercenary’s careless courtesy, even going so far as to hold out her hand to him. ‘Get on with it, le Bret,’ he snapped.

Serene now she had got her way, Marie tapped slowly across the boards. ‘I’ll take my leave, François, I’m fatigued. Good night to you both.’

François, not wishing his manners to be put in the shade by an ignorant mercenary, bowed grudgingly in his mother’s direction. ‘Good night,
madame
.’

G
wenn woke abruptly. Her linen nightgown was drenched with sweat, for in her dreams she had been reliving the nightmare chase through the streets. She lifted her thick plait of hair from the back of her neck, grateful that her grandmother had kept a candle lighted in their bedchamber. It was a luxury she usually denied them on the grounds of expense.

Gwenn shifted in her narrow cot, half afraid to recapture sleep, for that way lay terror. Even now her heart was pumping. She pressed hot, tear-stained cheeks into her bolster to try and cool them, trying to move as little as possible in the hope that her grandmother would think she was asleep. Gwenn knew Izabel had been upset by her weeping, and did not want her to know she was wakeful. Once, with a rare flash of humour, her grandmother had said that Gwenn slept so soundly she would sleep through the Last Judgement. But not tonight.