Текст книги "The Stone Rose"
Автор книги: Carol Townend
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
Chapter Seventeen
Mid-April 1186.
Johanna the wet nurse was a stranger to modesty, like most nursing mothers. She saw no reason to blush when she unlaced her gown, and she often fed baby Philippe in the bustle of the hall. Johanna liked feeding him there, for two reasons.
The first was that her brother, Conan, expected her to keep him informed of events at Kermaria, and as the hall was the centre of activity, it was the ideal place for her to sit and sift the wheat from the chaff. All Johanna had to do was find a seat, latch St Clair’s heir onto her breast, and keep her eyes peeled and her ears open. She could talk if she wanted to, but generally she found this not worth the candle, for the people most likely to bother with the wet nurse were the other women. And they, Johanna thought scornfully, never knew anything. So most days, she would sit quietly in the hall, stroking Philippe’s head, and pretending to look down at him in a loving way. She hoped she looked as pretty as Our Lady did on the mural in the chapel. Jean paid Johanna well for the pains she took with his son, and she did take pains. Eventually she did not even have to pretend to look lovingly at Philippe – she came to love him in truth, and her look betrayed her.
Philippe St Clair was almost eight months old. He had taken to his nurse, and had lost his wizened, premature face. The child Johanna fed now could almost be weaned were it not the fashion to keep children on the breast for as long as possible. His cheeks had filled out and were as rosy as apples. He was plump and always smiling. He had strong, sturdy fists which he waved in the air. Johanna did not like to think that soon he would no longer need her, and not just because she was being paid twice. Sir Jean paid her. Her brother paid her. She’d never known work could be so easy, so enjoyable. She dreaded its ending.
The second reason Johanna liked sitting in the hall was connected with her desire to look pretty. Johanna had no sooner spied Ned Fletcher in Duke’s Tavern, than she wanted him – him and no other. She was no simpering virgin to be taken in by a handsome face, as the fact that she was able to give suck to the knight’s child proved. But that day when her brother had wrenched a comb through her hair and shoved her all unwilling into Duke’s Tavern had changed her life. Conan had warned her to talk pretty, because they’d not take a slattern. Having seen Ned Fletcher, Johanna had obeyed him, and she had been taken to Kermaria.
Up until that fateful August morning, Johanna had lived from hand to mouth, drifting aimlessly, content to grab as much as she could for herself. However, once she had set eyes on Ned Fletcher that changed. Suddenly, she had a mission in life, and she was willing to try anything to get him, including sitting in St Clair’s hall for hours longer than was necessary in the hope of seeing him. Ned Fletcher had been a sergeant when he had brought her here, but the very next day Johanna had witnessed his promotion to captain, apparently on the recommendation of Jean St Clair’s brother, Sir Waldin. A squat red-headed man called Denis had been made sergeant in his place.
Ned was unlike any man Johanna had ever met. He did not seem to realise how those golden looks of his turned ladies’ heads, or if he did, he failed to make the most of it, a fact she found extraordinary. Life was tough. Nothing came easily, and Johanna’s view was that you must make the most of the meanest of God’s blessings. God had gifted her with some charms. She was plump and generally men admired her full figure. Johanna would reckon herself simple-minded and not deserving of God’s favour, if she did not put her charms to use.
She tried baring her generous breasts in front of Ned, even if baby Philippe had already sucked himself into a stupor. But though the other men gawped at her, the Saxon never did. And she spent time considering how best to sit in order that her full bosom would be better displayed before him. His subordinates ogled her, their gazes fastened as greedily as a hungry babe’s on her breasts every time she sat by the fire, but Ned Fletcher might as well have been walking about blindfold for all the notice he took. Why didn’t he look her way?
It took Johanna a day or two to work out that his interest was fixed elsewhere, but this did not daunt her. Gwenn Herevi – for the girl was illegitimate and as such had no right to her father’s name – surely posed no threat? She had a skinny, childish body. What man could possibly see Johanna and still want Gwenn Herevi? Confident that her moment would come, Johanna bided her time. But the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and Ned Fletcher had yet to do more than nod at her.
One day when baby Philippe got the gripe, Johanna came to the reluctant decision that she would have to feed the child in the solar, for he was so distracted by the goings on in the hall that he began to carp and would not feed properly. Settling the baby on her broad hip, she carried him upstairs. His cradle had been placed alongside his sisters’ bed. Johanna would learn nothing this morning thanks to the babe. Nor would she see the handsome captain. Scowling at her charge, Johanna dragged the curtain across the opening, lest a chance visitor to the solar should disturb the already unsettled infant.
‘You’re a nuisance, you are.’ She wagged her finger at him but, being genuinely fond of the baby, she bore him no ill will. Philippe gurgled and stopped grizzling. He smiled and waved a chubby fist at her. Johanna gave him a loving shake. ‘You’re a charmer, and all. All smiles now you’ve got your own way.’
She plumped down on the bed, stretched out her legs and unlaced her gown. Philippe responded well to the peace and quiet and was soon sucking vigorously. The bed was bulging with feathers – it was soft, and baby Philippe warm. After a minute or so, Johanna’s eyelids became heavy. The conversation down in the hall was no more than a distant buzz. Now and then one voice or another would rise above the others, but gently, like waves breaking on a distant shore. Half asleep, Johanna’s mind wandered. She visualised herself walking the length of a beach. Striding at her side was Ned Fletcher. His hair was bleached by a summer sun. He turned and looked at her. His eyes were as blue as the sky, and he was smiling...
Philippe’s head lolled heavily to one side, the milk dribbling from his tiny rosebud mouth. He was sated, and his eyes were closed.
In a minute I’ll lace myself up and put him in his cradle, Johanna thought lazily. She was too comfortable to rouse herself, and surely no one would object if she took a short nap? She folded her arms securely round the sleeping babe, exhaled softly, and joined Philippe St Clair in sleep.
Half an hour later, she jerked suddenly awake, wondering what had disturbed her. Instinctively she looked at the infant, but Philippe’s small body lay tranquil against her breast – he was fast asleep. The draught blowing through the window slit must have woken her.
Easing the baby from her breast, Johanna pulled the edges of her gown together, moving slowly so she did not joggle him. She did not want to get up, but she couldn’t lie on Gwenn Herevi’s bed all day. Baby Philippe might have the colic, but her brother would be avid for news. Conan had bribed the carter who brought in Kermaria’s supplies from Vannes, and usually Johanna left verbal messages with him. More rarely, Conan himself would ride in on the carter’s wagon and arrange to meet her in the stables. If caught, he would say he was peddling. Johanna failed to see why Conan was so interested in life at Kermaria. Her plump red lips pursed. She must ask her brother why he needed to know so much – she didn’t want to help him if it meant harm might come to Captain Fletcher. Thoughtfully, she ran grubby hands over the fine coverlet. It was silk, imported from Nicaea in the Holy Land. Johanna did not know what silk felt like, nor had she heard of Nicaea, but she recognised quality when she came across it. She hoped Mistress Gwenn and Katarin appreciated how fortunate they were to slumber in such a bed.
She heard a soft footfall in the solar. Someone was moving about out there. It must have been the creaking of the solar door that had woken her, not the chilly spring breeze. Tenderly she wiped Philippe’s mouth with her sleeve and put him in his cradle. Philippe didn’t so much as murmur. Babies were so trusting.
The breeze lifted the curtain of the sleeping-alcove and Johanna saw Gwenn Herevi. She sucked in a breath and drew back, full lips thinning. She hadn’t made a sound, nor would she; she would snatch at this heaven-sent chance of observing her rival unseen.
Gwenn was standing by the shelf where that statue of the Virgin was kept. Johanna saw her pick it up. She could hear her muttering under her breath. Gwenn Herevi couldn’t be talking to the statue, surely? The girl must be mad, Johanna thought hopefully. And salting that idea away in the back of her mind, where it would stay until she found a use for it – perhaps in her bid to win Ned Fletcher – Johanna squatted down on her haunches to watch what Sir Jean’s bastard was doing.
***
‘What do you mean, the wench refuses to do it?’ the Dowager Countess snapped. ‘We’ve been generous enough, haven’t we?’
Since her fall, Marie de Roncier’s legs were shaky, and as she continued to spurn crutches, she had had to submit to being carried down to the hall of Huelgastel. She had consented reluctantly to this indignity, but her son had sweetened the draught by ordering her a chair similar in construction to his own. Throne-like, it had armrests at the side, and Marie had discovered that there was nothing she like better than to sit in state in her cushioned chair and queen over her son’s kingdom. The Countess Eleanor, who spent more and more time in the chapel, made no objection. Enthroned in her chair, a rug draped across her useless legs, Marie glared at the pedlar from Vannes.
‘You’ve been more than generous, madame,’ Conan answered, and, seeing danger in his patroness’s flashing black eyes, he fell on his knees. The granite flags were hard and cold through the scant rush covering, but the pedlar had learned early on in life that the nobility liked respect enough to pay for it, and he didn’t mind a bit of boot-licking – or in the Countess’s case, slipper-licking – if it meant the noble lady would keep him in her employ.
‘Why won’t she do it?’ the Countess demanded, testily.
The woman was as tenacious as a terrier with a rat to shake, Conan thought. Then, because this thought set in motion an impolitic smile he had difficulty suppressing, he hastily looked at the floor. Let her think me subservient. Stammering, he tried to explain the unexplainable, ‘I...I think Johanna has a f...fondness for the child.’
‘Fondness?’ The Countess’s eyes were hard with disbelief. ‘Fondness? Don’t fob me off with lies! You can’t tell me that all these months we’ve been paying your sister to keep her ears to the ground, she’s been nursing a fondness for St Clair’s brat!’
‘I’m sorry, madame, but it’s the truth,’ Conan mumbled, bowing his head so low he could have kissed the flags at the Countess’s feet. He wished his belly did not ache. This bending double did not help his delicate constitution. A drop of that wine on the side trestle would put some fire in his insides... Out of the corner of his eye Conan saw the Countess’s red satin slippers tap – there was life left in those feet then – and the next moment he felt the sting of her cane as she flicked his temple.
‘Oh, stop grovelling, do,’ she clucked impatiently. ‘I can’t make out what you’re saying when you mumble at the ground.’
The pedlar tried to meet the Dowager’s gaze, but her coal-black eyes were bolder than any whore in Vannes and, finding himself out-stared, he found himself looking at her bosom instead.
Marie made a choking sound in her throat. ‘It’s not good enough,’ she said.
‘My apologies, madame,’ Conan mumbled, uncertain whether she was referring to the disobedience of his sister, or his looking at her sagging breasts. To be safe, he shifted his eyes to the wimple covering her throat. Was it a scraggy throat under the spotless linen? The throat of an old bird who had lived too long?
‘You’re certain she can’t be persuaded? Have you offered her more?’
‘Aye, madame. I only had to hint at poison, and she went all tragic on me. Saying as how did I think she could harm a child who’d sucked the nourishment from her own p–’
Marie flourished her cane for silence. ‘Spare me the sordid details.’
Her bold eyes fastened on something behind Conan and, turning, he saw Count François de Roncier stalking up the hall. With a sigh, he bent his creaking spine even lower. His stomach gurgled a protest. ‘Good evening, mon seigneur.’
‘You may go,’ Marie said. Conan hesitated, and she glared past her hook of a nose, restively tapping her cane on her chair leg.
‘You...you will employ me again, won’t you, madame?’
Thin, bloodless lips were stretched into what might have been intended as a smile. ‘Naturally I’ll employ you. I can’t rely on your sister, but so far I’ve not been able to fault you.’
‘I...I assure you, madame, I am yours to command,’ Conan said eagerly, and because he knew it was expected of him, he ignored his griping belly and gave another ingratiating bow. ‘My thanks, madame.’ Thankful that his sister’s mutiny had not lost him a good source of income, he bowed himself out.
Marie smiled apologetically at her son. ‘I have to admit, François, that the plan I discussed with you earlier has failed.’
‘The brat’s wet nurse refuses to “spice” his gruel?’
‘That’s it in a nutshell. I’d hoped the wench could be persuaded, and we could have solved your problem with the minimum of bloodshed, and without arousing suspicion. After all, infancy is fraught with dangers – why, your own sister Sybille died when she was barely six months old. It would have been the lesser of two evils.’ Marie sighed. ‘However, apparently the pedlar’s sister has feelings for St Clair’s heir. I regret her attitude, but the girl’s brother says she won’t budge on this.’ Her thin mouth drooped. ‘I don’t want you to lose ground to St Clair any more than you do, François. Perhaps the time has come for firmer measures.’
François smiled. ‘You’ve come round to my way of thinking, Mother?’
‘Aye, my son. I think that I have.’
***
Jean was in the stables. He had dismissed the groom and was brushing his dead wife’s horse, Dancer, himself. The mare’s coat was brown, she had liquid eyes and white stockings on three of her legs. A pretty creature, Jean had bought her for Yolande soon after she and the children had been evicted from Vannes. Yolande had not ridden Dancer since she had first discovered that she was pregnant, but Jean knew that she had loved the animal. After Yolande’s death, Jean had lifted responsibility for the grooming of the horse from the stableboy’s shoulders and taken it upon his own. He had not missed a day since his wife’s death. The grooming of Yolande’s mare had become in some inexplicable way a ritual whereby he imagined he maintained a link with his wife. No one came running to him with day-to-day concerns while he was in the stable, and he indulged in flights of fancy that a year ago he would have dismissed as maudlin and unrealistic.
He would pretend that he was grooming Yolande’s mare prior to their taking a ride together. Any moment now, he would think, Yolande will walk smiling through that open door, and I will link my hands together to form a step for her, and she will mount, and we will be off, trotting sedately out of the yard and...
‘Ned? Ned?’
Recognising his eldest daughter’s voice, Jean came out of his daydream with a jolt. He moved to the door and leaned out. Gwenn was tearing across the yard towards the too young and too handsome captain. Jean sighed wearily and his brows jutted, for Gwenn was barefoot and her skirts were bunched up round her knees. She was running so fast she looked certain to run into the Englishman. Momentarily forgetting his bereavement, Jean slipped into an older, happier, mode of thinking and resolved to remind Yolande to have a word with the girl. Then remembrance shivered cold through his veins. Yolande would not speak to Gwenn, or anyone, not in this life. Yolande was dead. It was up to him to sort his daughter out...
‘Ned?’ Gwenn panted. To add insult to injury, as his daughter slithered to a halt in front of the captain, Jean saw her grasp his arms to steady herself.
‘Mistress?’ Ned responded warily, and disengaged himself as soon as he was able, for he had seen Jean hovering hawk-eyed in the stable doorway.
Gwenn tossed a shining but dishevelled rope of hair over one shoulder. ‘Ned, can we ride?’
‘Gwenn, what are you about?’ Jean interrupted as forcefully as he could. It was a task these days, finding energy to be forceful about anything. A month ago he had finally taken his heir’s case to the Duke’s court to establish his claim to the de Wirce lands. He had made his hold reasonably secure; he had promoted Fletcher to captain; taken on more men-at-arms... He knew he ought to do more, but lately Jean left everything to Waldin. He had lost heart.
‘P...Papa?’
‘If you could see yourself,’ Jean strode over, ‘pelting across the yard with your skirts hitched up. You’re a disgrace, Gwenn, a disgrace.’
‘I’m sorry, Papa, but I’m bursting for a ride, and I thought Ned–’
Jean St Clair made a hook of one brow. ‘Ned?’
‘My apologies, Papa. I forgot...’ Gwenn trailed off. Her father’s face was set harder than the Israelites’ stone tablets. She lifted speaking eyes to her father’s, but was prudent enough to keep her tongue wedged between her teeth, and any rebellious comments locked inside her. Her father looked so tired.
‘Get inside, Gwenn,’ Jean said, coldly.
‘Aye, sir.’ She bobbed him a curtsy.
‘And do something about your hair, will you? It looks like a haystack this morning. What would your Mama have said?’
A hand flew to her hair. ‘I’m sorry, Papa.’ Head up, she walked back to the hall.
‘And as for you, Captain,’ Jean roused himself to speak severely, ‘leave my daughter alone, will you? By Christ, if I catch you speaking familiarly to Mistress Gwenn...’
The threat was left hanging in the air, but Ned understood. He would lose his captaincy and would have to go elsewhere for his daily bread.
‘I’ll try, sir,’ Ned said, ‘but sometimes I find it a trial, because your daughter...’
Jean found a smile. ‘I know, lad,’ he said, with complete understanding. ‘She forgets the difference in your stations. I should have found her a husband long since, but now that Lady Yolande is gone, she is a great comfort, and I don’t want to lose her.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Ned sympathised with that. He did not want to lose Gwenn either, not that she would ever be his, of course, but the idea of her marrying and leaving Kermaria left him sick inside.
‘But,’ Jean’s voice took on a hard edge, ‘it is up to you, Captain Fletcher, to keep her at a proper distance. It is up to you to remind her.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Nodding gruffly at Ned, Jean returned to Dancer and picked up the curry comb. He knew he ought to resume enquiries and choose a husband for Gwenn. He had a couple of candidates in mind, but after a few minutes’ miserable contemplation, he abandoned his line of thought. It didn’t cheer him at all.
Pensively, he stroked Dancer’s immaculate coat. He didn’t want to lose his daughter. The loss of Yolande was enough for one lifetime. Apart from his children, Jean had nothing left worth losing. Another twisted smile surfaced. The one positive thing to come out of Yolande’s death was that he had become immune to fear. Nothing on this earth could intimidate him. Having lost his darling, he was beyond anyone’s reach. And as for title to the land that he had coveted for so long, he had his heir now, and doubtless the Duke’s court would decided in Philippe’s favour. It was up to Philippe to pursue that when he was grown. Jean no longer cared.
***
Alan shortened his reins and, waving Duke Geoffrey’s mounted guard to one side, looked about the port of Vannes with interest. It was high tide, and the sky was overcast. Cloud-grey water lapped near the top of the jetties. A fishing boat was moored in the mouth of the harbour, and a lone cormorant stood on its bow, wings outstretched. It had been diving. Alan smiled as the bird shook its wings in the breeze to dry them. The smells of a thriving quayside, of salt and oysters, of crabs and fishes’ entrails, were inescapable.
It was almost a year since the Duke’s business had last brought Alan to Vannes, and it hadn’t altered in that time. It was true that work had progressed well on the cathedral. The walls were soaring up, and it was rumoured the bishop was bringing glaziers all the way from Paris to install some of the new coloured glass that had been so admired in Nôtre Dame. But St Peter’s aside, Vannes was unchanged.
Alan looked towards the Duke. He was riding Firebrand, a chestnut courser Alan had always admired, and he was surrounded by a vast, glittering retinue. Alan grimaced. This was one aspect of life with the Duke that he could do without, the hangers-on. There were always hangers-on, except when the Duke made a rare escape to one of his bolt-holes. And look at them. Knights in their court finery – lords wearing heavy velvets, embroidered hats with great plumes, and gauntlets encrusted with seed pearls. Their horses had ribbons plaited through their shiny well-groomed manes as if they were love-sick girls. Why, half of those pretty, plumed knights didn’t know one end of a sword from the other.
There on the quayside was all the noise and brashness of a ducal court used to moving about the country wherever its duke went. It was a pageant, staged to impress. But did it? Alan noted a handful of fishermen watching the show. Their eyes were cynical as they took in the Phrygian caps, the rich embroidery, the bright flowing capes and the gilded harness. The fisherfolk were unimpressed. Alan felt he understood. What had the Duke’s court to do with the grinding poverty of their lives?
The court was on the quayside to meet a ship from Nantes carrying a new warhorse for the Duke. He hoped to have a few months’ drilling with his latest acquisition before trying his luck at the King of France’s tournament in Paris. They would shortly be leaving the Morbihan Gulf, riding north for Rennes and the practice lists there. Alan looked forward to it. The tourney and the war games were one aspect of his service that he enjoyed. But before they departed, Alan intended to ask for leave to visit his brother William. It wasn’t far to St Félix’s Monastery, which lay in the forest about ten miles west of Vannes. He only hoped that William was still there and that his talents as a painter had not been required elsewhere.
Alan kneed his mount through the crowd of courtiers. ‘What’s the name of the vessel, Your Grace?’ he asked. He had seen François de Roncier’s colours flying from a number of ships, and concluded the Count must yet be a force in the area.
‘Name? Oh. Sea Serpent.’
‘It’s in. There.’ Alan pointed past a wide-brimmed hat at a slender ship with a green painted snake curving along its prow. It was squeezed between two hulks flying de Roncier’s flag.
‘Out of my way, Martell,’ the Duke said. ‘And try and keep this lot out of it, will you?’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ replied a handsome young knight clad simply in brown, a pheasant among the peacocks.
‘Come on, le Bret.’ Duke Geoffrey spurred through his courtiers towards the ship. Even as the Duke and Alan trotted up, the charger was being led off. He was vast, with heavy bones and crushing hoofs the size of trenchers. Every time he put a hoof down, the gangplank creaked and shuddered. His coat was dark as a moonless night. The Duke’s Master of the Horse was no runt, being a long, stick of a man who topped Alan by over a head, but the Duke’s new warhorse dwarfed him.
‘Jesu!’ Alan let out an appreciative whistle. ‘I hardly reach his shoulders!’
Duke Geoffrey grinned. ‘He’ll even the odds for me, eh, le Bret?’
‘Fit for a king,’ Alan said, sincerely.
The Duke’s grin enlarged. ‘That’s what I hoped you’d say. Philip will be green.’
‘The animal will bear your colours well, Your Grace. His midnight coat will be handsome against the black and white.’
‘That had occurred to me.’ The Duke dismounted, eyes fixed on the warhorse.
Alan decided that now would be a good a time as any to put in his request for leave. ‘Your Grace?’
‘Mmm?’ The Duke dropped Firebrand’s reins and moved forwards.
Jumping down to the quayside, Alan stooped for the abandoned courser’s reins. ‘About my leave–’
‘Not now, le Bret.’ Duke Geoffrey put his hand to the coal-black withers which rippled under his touch. The stallion stood firm and blew out through his nose.
‘Your Grace, at Suscinio last August you said I could take my leave in a month or two. It’s April now.’
The Duke sent him a preoccupied look, and turned back to his stallion. ‘Is he ready, Brian?’
‘As ready as he’ll ever be, Your Grace,’ the Master of the Horse said.
‘Fetch his saddle.’
Brian looked concerned. ‘But Your Grace...in town?’
‘In town,’ the Duke confirmed.
Alan patted Firebrand’s silken neck. ‘We’re forgotten, my friend,’ he said. Firebrand’s ears twitched. Alan raised his voice, ‘Your Grace?’
The Duke frowned. ‘Christ’s wounds, le Bret, I thought you’d gone back to your troop.’ Brian was returning with the saddle. Grabbing it, the Duke threw it over the warhorse’s broad back himself. ‘Go on then, le Bret. Where did you say you wanted to go?’
‘St Félix-in-the-Wood.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘It’s near Kermaria, Your Grace.’
The Duke straightened. ‘Kermaria. That name’s familiar. Who holds it, do you know?’
‘Sir Jean St Clair.’
The Duke rubbed his chin. ‘A tenant of mine, a small one, but nevertheless.... Has he sworn fealty?’
‘Not to my knowledge, Your Grace.’
The Duke grunted. ‘You may have a week’s leave, le Bret, on condition that you visit Kermaria on my behalf. I want a full report on this Sir Jean, and the state of his manor, number of serfs, freemen, soldiers, and so on. The place was derelict, but that may have changed. It may actually be useful these days. Sort it out with your men, and ask my chaplain to see you get a letter of introduction to take with you. I’m to meet with Duchess Constance, and if I’m gone when you return, go to Rennes. I’ll need you there.’
‘My thanks,’ Alan said. He was well content to have a legitimate excuse to visit his cousin. He had often wondered how Ned was faring. A lot could have happened to young Ned in the two years since Alan had seen him. And apparently St Félix’s cell was a stone’s throw from Kermaria. Alan was owed rather more than a week’s leave, but at this moment a week was all he wanted. He gestured to the chestnut courser whose reins he still held. ‘Shall I have Firebrand stabled, Your Grace?’
The Duke tightened his warhorse’s girth. ‘No, you can take him, le Bret. I know you enjoy riding him. Brian here can take your mount.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Alan tossed his own mount’s reins to the Master of the Horse, switched his gear to Firebrand and mounted him swiftly, lest the Duke changed his mind. He nudged the shining chestnut flanks with his heels and trotted briskly towards his men.
***
The larks that were carolling over the fields to the east could be heard clear over Kermaria marsh. But the larks were the first creatures to waken and as their song was the only sign of life, it went largely unheard. Dawn was an hour away. The whispering sedge and rushes, which a sharp frost had coated with a delicate film of ice, stood dumb, unmoved by wind or wildfowl. The coots and moorhens, snug in nests in the reeds, slept on. The stillness was absolute. It radiated from the marsh – a web of silence spun so large it cloaked not only mere and reeds but also the bridge, the peasants’ cots, the stables, and all of St Clair’s tower right up to the sentry who sat behind a merlon with his red head nodding over his spear. Everything was snared, gently, but firmly, in that web.
The disturbance was small at first. Hardly more than a shiver in the chill, dusky air, an imperceptible ripple of movement which shook the strands of the web and then faded. The silence seemed to grow heavier. Then the movement came again, only this time it was stronger. There was an insignificant sucking noise, as though someone had been marching through the marsh and had inadvertently put their foot into a boggy patch, and was pulling it free.
‘Hell!’ A harsh whisper rattled the reeds. A lantern flap opened a crack, and as a yellow wedge of light streamed forth, it lit up a fenland bristling with men who stood taller than the fresh willow shoots pushing their way to the sky. The men’s spears were more pointed than the frost-tipped reeds, and in the light of the lantern they flashed more brightly.
The big man holding the lantern clenched his fist and controlled an urge to strike the fool who had broken the silence. ‘Quiet, dog,’ Otto Malait mouthed.
‘Damn sedge,’ the trooper muttered, licking blood from his palm. He displayed a vivid slash running across his hand. ‘Edge is sharper than my sword.’
Otto’s hand rose as he delivered a swingeing clout to the fellow’s ears. ‘Be silent,’ he hissed. Flicking the lantern cover, he extinguished the light.
A sedge warbler gave a warning cry as Otto pushed forwards. The web of silence trembled. A moorhen shot out from under his boots, echoing the warbler’s note of alarm. Resigned that the silence was lost, Otto ploughed on. He had his orders. His men must cover as much ground as possible if they were going to be in position before the sun melted the frost on the reeds.
Count de Roncier planned to lead his attack from the north, while Otto had been commanded to direct his men via the marsh to the village. From there they were to force their way into the courtyard. Otto wondered if de Roncier was in position. If this raid was to be effective, they must strike before first light.
