Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

‘Another weapon?’ Mary shivered. ‘What might that be, Johanna? I can’t say I like it here, the damp’s making my muscles creak like a rusty gate, but we have everything we need: beef, cheeses, smoked fish, wine, ale.’

‘No wine, and no ale,’ Johanna said. ‘Don’t you remember, they removed the casks they’d not drunk dry?’

‘Aye, so they did. But we have everything else.’

‘Everything save what we need most. We have no water. And already we are thirsty.’

Mary blinked into an infinity of blackness. Her sigh rustled like a breeze playing through dry, dead leaves. ‘Water. I see. How long do you think they’ll wait?’

‘Who knows? But if I had any pennies to wager, I’d say that when they do come in, they’ll be drinking themselves. They will want to torment us.’ Johanna usually avoided contact with members of her own sex, but she found herself groping for Holy Mary’s arm. ‘Mary, I’m truly sorry they have you in here. I thought they’d release you with the others.’

‘I’m glad to be here,’ Mary lied stoically. ‘I am glad to share in your courage, Johanna. You are a brave, loyal girl, and I’d not have you face them alone.’

‘I’m not brave. And I’m certainly not the least bit loyal,’ Johanna said. ‘I only...only wanted the babe to be safe.’ And Ned Fletcher, she added silently.

‘You are brave, Johanna,’ Mary insisted with the confident, ringing tones of a brimstone preacher. ‘You can dress it how you will, but I know you are brave. And seeing you – the only one out of all of us with the faith to face that...that monster of a man – why, you inspired me.’ Mary clasped Johanna’s hand. ‘We’ll face them together.’

This was the first time that Johanna had drawn comfort from another woman’s touch, used as she was to viewing all other women as potential rivals. She returned the pressure on her hand, answering huskily, ‘Aye. We face them together.’

The scraping of the bolt made an end to conversation. Light angled into the vault. Two men entered, the Viking Captain and Nicholas Warr. As Johanna had predicted, Malait was clutching a waterskin.

Getting hastily to their feet, the women exchanged glances. Mary licked parched lips. Johanna wondered about Ned Fletcher. Neither of them smiled.

‘Good morning, my pretties.’ Otto swaggered towards them, tantalisingly swinging the waterskin from a thong wrapped round his solid wrist. ‘I thought it was time we had our little chat. Warr?’

‘Captain?’

‘Secure the door, and bring that lamp over. I want to mark their expressions.’

‘Aye, sir.’

The Viking raised his water bottle and, removing the stopper, took a long pull. Water dribbled down his chin, and the rivulets were soaked up in his forest of a beard. Both women stared fixedly at the lamp the archer was carrying. ‘Not thirsty, eh?’ In the beard, the wide mouth curved. ‘Pity. You won’t want this, then.’ Upending the container, Malait poured the contents onto the floor.

Mary shut her eyes and her dry throat tried in vain to swallow.

‘You’ve a visitor, little spy,’ the captain said, looking at Johanna.

Mary’s hand jerked in Johanna’s, and the wet nurse felt the other woman’s eyes boring into her. ‘A visitor?’

‘Your brother. He’s anxious for your welfare. Shall I send him in?’

‘You’ve already decided what you will do,’ Johanna said, dully. ‘Nothing I say will have any effect on your actions.’

Otto did not gainsay her.

Mary had withdrawn her hand from Johanna’s and was regarding her suspiciously. ‘What does he mean, Johanna? Little spy? You could not have been in this man’s employ. Johanna?’

‘Oh, be quiet, Mary, can’t you see he seeks to break our amity?’

Otto’s thick finger stabbed at Mary. ‘You, get upstairs. I want you to show me where St Clair is supposed to have buried his brat. While you, little spy, can wait here. I’ll send Conan down when we’ve found the grave.’

The faintest of sighs slid past Johanna’s full lips. Ned Fletcher must have got the babe away. Both must be safe.

***

Holding up the lamp as he entered the cellar, Conan saw his sister was perched on a casket of salt beef, gently pressing her breasts. ‘Missing the babe, Johanna?’ he asked indifferently.

Johanna raised her head and looked listlessly at him. ‘I only gave him suck in the evenings. I was trying to wean him. It doesn’t hurt much. My milk will soon dry up.’ She wondered if Conan had been sent to pronounce sentence on her. Mary must have shown Malait the grave of the peasant baby by now. Had it convinced Malait that St Clair’s heir was dead? Conan’s face was impassive, it gave nothing away. Johanna wondered what her fate would be if Malait remained suspicious. Would they torture her to make her talk? Vikings were renowned for violence and cruelty throughout Christendom.

‘Well, Conan, what’s to do?’

‘You’re free.’

‘Free?’

‘You’re to come home with me. Here, you’ll be thirsty.’ Casually, the pedlar tossed a bulging waterskin onto her lap.

Johanna hid her astonishment behind as blank a front as she could summon. Ducking her head, she made a show of fumbling at the stopper. ‘What happened to Mary?’ she managed, and to give herself time to think, she put the bottle to her dry lips and drank.

‘Not much. The maid pointed out the infant’s grave to Malait, and now she’s on her way to Huelgastel.’

‘What...what made him believe us? I should have thought your captain would take some convincing.’

‘He verified that what you said was the truth.’

‘Verified? How?’

‘Captain Malait had the grave dug over and found a baby boy.’

‘No!’

Conan was amused by his sister’s revulsion. ‘Time we started back for Vannes, Johanna. Drink up.’

Johanna felt sick, with relief as well as revulsion. Thank Christ the grave had contained a boy. If it had been a girl, it would have been her death warrant.

She kept her head down as she walked through the hall and into the courtyard. The yard was become a charnel house, with the bodies of the slain stacked under sheeting like logs ready for winter. She averted her eyes, but not before she glimpsed a leg sticking out from underneath the table linen. She had only lived at Kermaria for a few months, and never expected to feel sympathy for the people here, but now, seeing them laid out like so much dead wood, Johanna discovered she’d stayed long enough for fellow feeling to have grown.

Anxious to shake the dust of Kermaria from her shoes, she turned her face to the bridge.

In the solar, conferring with Nicholas Warr, Otto watched from the high window. ‘There she goes, Warr.’

Nicholas Warr stared at Johanna’s retreating back. ‘You say she refused to administer poppy juice to the child?’

‘So her brother maintained.’

‘And you suspect she’s keeping something back?’

Otto bared discoloured teeth. ‘I’m as sure of that as I’m sure the sun will rise at tomorrow’s dawning.’

‘Then why let her go, Captain?’

Otto’s smile was tinged with triumph. ‘Because, my dear fellow, she’s as mutinous a wench as you could hope to meet, and now she’s released, she will be off her guard. Her brother will be able to worm whatever it is out of her faster than I could if I had her flayed alive.’

‘Do you trust the pedlar?’

Otto held up a chinking drawstring pouch. ‘He’s vermin. But as long as I hold this, I trust him. Conan will be back.’

***

‘You made me walk so far and so fast, Conan, my shoes are wearing out,’ Johanna said, stopping to sit on a milestone. A grey rat of a dog that had crawled out of the ground-elder by the Kermaria crossroads and had been shadowing them squatted in the road by her shoes and scratched a ragged ear. Conan had not slackened his pace, but Johanna picked up her feet and examined them. Blisters were forming – she was not used to walking. The mongrel’s stumpy tail gave a tentative wag. ‘Why is this thing following us, Conan?’

With a sigh, Conan stopped and frowned over his shoulder. ‘It’s a pest, a stray.’ Impatience was building up within him. They had not progressed above three miles; she walked painfully slowly, did his sister. ‘You should have shown some restraint at table, Johanna,’ he said. ‘There’s too much of you to carry about, that’s why your feet ache. You’re fatter than ever you were before you went to Kermaria.’

A shadow darkened Johanna’s plump countenance. Ned had preferred Gwenn Herevi over her, and Gwenn Herevi was skinny as a rake. She did not like to think that there might be some truth in her brother’s accusation. ‘It’s all very well for you to criticise, Conan, but how could I let all that food go to waste? They ate well at the manor. A saint on a Lenten fast would have been tempted. Besides, I was eating for two.’

‘Three more like,’ Conan responded sourly.

Johanna flexed her feet, counted another blister on one of her heels, and began massaging her toes.

‘Come on, do,’ Conan said, glancing at the sun. ‘I want to be back in Vannes before they lock the gates.’

‘Look, Conan, already there’s a hole in this shoe.’ Poking her finger through a rent in the leather where the upper had come away from the sole, Johanna waggled her shoe at him. The dog cocked its head on one side.

Conan prepared to walk on. ‘You can buy more shoes in Vannes, I’ve lodgings directly over the cobblers.’

‘Buy more shoes? But, Conan, I’ve no money.’

The pedlar stood still as a standing stone. ‘What, none?’

Johanna should have been warned by the set of her brother’s shoulders, but with her mind fixed on her feet, she did not notice. ‘Not a penny,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘I spent what I had on the material to make this dress.’

Conan turned. ‘I’d hoped for help with the rent. I can’t afford to keep you. I don’t need no bloody millstone.’

‘I should have thought you’ve feathered your nest enough on what I told you concerning Kermaria,’ Johanna said sharply. ‘You could help me out till I find...an alternative means of support.’

The pedlar gazed coldly at his sister. ‘I found you that position at Kermaria,’ he said, as if he’d gone out of his way to find her the job. He had indeed done well out of placing her with St Clair, but it didn’t suit him to admit that. ‘I owe you nothing. Plums like that can’t fall in your lap every day of the week.’

According to Otto Malait, the ungrateful wench was holding something back. Perhaps he could induce her to confide in him by trickery. Or fear. Fear would have to be a last resort, it might turn her away from him. However, a pinch of it would not go amiss. If Johanna was worried he might not take her in, it might spur her to talk freely.

Not for a moment did it occur to Conan to play on his sister’s affections. His life had never been enriched with family feeling, and he was Johanna’s brother only when it suited him. In the inn all those months ago when he had overheard Ned Fletcher and Raymond Herevi mention a wet nurse, he had remembered the Count’s interest in the St Clair family and had seen at once that there was gain for him in sending Johanna to Kermaria. His sister’s needs had not weighed with him at all. If the opportunity had not presented itself, he would just as happily have seen her reduced to beggary.

Now, on the long road to Vannes, he was irritable. Johanna was too slow, but he could not abandon her till he had the information Malait wanted. He cast his eyes up the road and saw, balanced on the rim of the horizon, a building which to an innocent eye resembled a hundred other wayside taverns. It had an unsavoury reputation. Honest women shunned the place, for inside, women of another stamp took the drinks to the customers’ trestles. And if, as often was the case, more intimate services were required of the women, they would lead their clients to an upstairs chamber where two rows of pallets were spread over the floorboards, each screened from the next by a series of dingy, moth-eaten curtains stretched out on poles. The tattered curtains made a mockery of privacy, but no one ever complained.

Following the direction of her brother’s gaze, and not knowing the reputation of the inn, Johanna’s eyes brightened. ‘Is that a hostelry, Conan? I’m hungry, I’ve not broken my fast. And despite that water you gave me, I could drink a well dry.’ Johanna was so invigorated by the sight of the inn that she jammed her shoes back on her swollen feet and hobbled towards him. The cur followed.

Conan opened his mouth to loose a scathing comment about gluttony, but inspiration struck and he held his peace. Perhaps if he indulged his sister and bought her wine, that would loosen her tongue. Maybe he should try persuasion on her instead of the threats he habitually used. Pinning a passable smile to his face, he held out his hand, ‘Come on, Johanna. If you step out a little, I’ll buy you some food when we reach the tavern.’

Johanna gave him a grateful smile and wondered silently what had persuaded him to offer her food instead of insults. She threaded her arm through his and limped steadily on.

Inside the hostelry, Johanna was at first too thirsty to take an account of her surroundings, and when Conan ordered a full jug of Gascon wine to be brought to their table – an expense she had never known him spare her before – it would have seemed churlish to have refused such untoward generosity and admit to a preference for a measure of small ale.

The wine was rich and heady and made her head spin. ‘Why, Conan!’ she exclaimed, when she had drained her cup. ‘You are good to me!’

Conan did not feel at all generous. Reluctantly, he topped up her cup. The mongrel had slunk under the table and to relieve his feelings, Conan tried to kick it, but the dog, used to this treatment, nimbly evaded his boot. Indeed, the expenditure rankled to such an extent that when the whore who was serving them demanded instant payment, Conan fumbled the coins, dropping them on the floor. He picked them up, and the brainless dog licked his hand. ‘You’ve had a hard time of it lately, sister,’ Conan said when the wench had disappeared with his money. And though the words stuck in his throat, he even managed to add, ‘If your brother cannot buy you a drink at a time of trial, who can?’

If Conan’s generosity was unexpected, his sympathy was doubly so, and the dim hostelry was lost in a sudden mist as Johanna counted her miseries and her eyes brimmed. Ned Fletcher’s bright, Saxon features wavered in her mind’s eye. Her feet throbbed. She had no money. She would never see the English captain again. Thrusting her nose into her cup, she emptied it like a trooper.

Trusting his money was well-spent, Conan had the bottle ready and poured bravely.

‘I’m hungry, Conan,’ Johanna said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

‘I’ll order in a minute, the servers are busy.’ The servers were not busy, but Conan wanted his sister well-oiled before she ate. If she ate before she drank, it would cost twice as much in wine to make her talk. He regarded her impartially while he waited for the wine to take effect.

Johanna had rolled her wide sleeves up to her elbows and her plump arms rested on the table. Her cheeks were round, rosy and shiny as two apples, for the walk had made her hot, and her face and forehead bore a film of perspiration. More downy hairs covered her upper lip. The dress that she had so improvidently wasted her money on, was of good quality fabric, but it was now stained with the dust of the road and there were unsightly sweat marks under her arms.

Last winter, it had been the fashion among noble women to leave the side seams of their over-gown, or bliaud, open, lacing them at intervals so that the coloured undergown was revealed. Conan had seen Countess Eleanor de Roncier wear such a bliaud. His sister had clearly aped this fashion, but she had failed to take into account the fullness of her figure. Johanna’s bliaud was in fact a replica of one of Gwenn Herevi’s, and Johanna, no needlewoman, had cobbled it together in the hope of attracting Ned Fletcher’s attention. But far from giving her the elegance that she was striving for, the effect was lumpy and messy. Conan grinned. Johanna bulged out of the sides of her gown like a sausage which was too fat for its casing. Controlling his expression, he replenished her cup. He had lost count of how much she had drunk, but the bottle was down to three fingers, and he had barely sipped from his own cup.

Johanna lifted a hand to her head and rubbed it wearily. The wine had numbed the pain in her feet, but it was having a depressing effect on her senses. She wished Conan would hurry and order food. Wine had a strange effect on an empty stomach, and the one Conan had chosen seemed stronger than usual. Johanna felt listless and tired, and her eyes were having difficulty in focusing.

‘It’s a shame you never did as I asked about the poppy juice,’ Conan opened, cautiously. Brown eyes blinked at him through plump fingers. ‘The babe was obviously cursed, and you lost a chance to make a coin or two.’ His sister removed her hand from her eyes and it flopped clumsily onto the table. Conan took this as a sign that the wine was doing its work.

‘What do you mean, the babe was obviously cursed?’ The whites of Johanna’s eyes had gone pink, as though she had been weeping.

‘He died, didn’t he?’

It was a struggle for Johanna to recollect the story she and Holy Mary had concocted between them. ‘Oh, aye. The babe died of the marsh fever.’

‘And as the infant’s death was so obviously fated, I was thinking it a pity that you had not profited by it. If you have given him the drug, you could have claimed de Roncier’s reward.’ He heaved a remorseful sigh. ‘As it is, the child is dead and you have nothing.’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘In a minute, Johanna.’

Johanna raised her cup and summoned a shaky smile. ‘I can wait. This wine takes the edge off my appetite.’ And my grief, she thought. She wondered how much distance there was between her and Ned Fletcher and her babe. She hoped Malait had called off his dogs.

Conan smiled, and held out a fresh bottle. ‘Have some more, sister.’

‘I might have been rich, Conan,’ Johanna said confidingly, watching the red stream pour into her cup.

‘Rich,’ he agreed.

‘Captain Malait did call his men off, didn’t he?’

‘Aye.’

Reassured that her captain was safely away, Johanna continued with her confession. It was wonderful to discover that she had a sympathetic brother. ‘I might have had anything I wanted.’ She paused to sip her wine. She had drunk too much to notice that this second bottle was a rougher, less dear, wine. Conan was not about to spend more than he had to.

‘Not quite anything, sister, but certainly the Count’s reward would have bought you a trinket or two.’

‘No, Conan. You don’t know... I could have had more than any poxy trinket, if I’d set my mind to it. I saw where she hid it.’ Conan’s muscles clenched, but Johanna was too absorbed in her thoughts to notice. ‘No one else knew. All I had to do was to reach out my hand and take it.’

Conan’s breath was suspended. He did not have the faintest notion what his sister was babbling about, but it sounded as though they were coming to it. An encouraging noise was all the speech he dared make. ‘Mmm?’

‘I missed my chance, Conan. Because of Ned Fletcher. If it had not been for the English captain, I would have taken it months ago.’

‘Taken what, Johanna?’ Conan asked as casually as he could.

Unsteadily, Johanna set her cup down and stared at the table which was rocking slightly from side to side. ‘Conan, I’ve been a fool.’ She focused on him, and he was astonished to see disillusionment in her eyes. ‘You’d kill me if you knew the chance I’d passed up.’

Conan reached for his sister’s hand, and patted it awkwardly. ‘Kill you? Never.’

‘Oh, Conan,’ to his horror her eyes began to fill, ‘you are kind. Such a good brother.’ She sobbed.

‘There, there. Never mind, Johanna. Have another drink, and tell your brother all about it.’

***

Dusk was over in a matter of moments, for a dark blanket of clouds was draped low in the sky, hiding the moon and evening star. The blanket of grey seemed to absorb the last of the daylight rays, and all at once the western sky was no lighter than the eastern sky. Night settled over the forest.

Nose to the ground, a she-wolf was beating the bounds of her territory. She was sleek and content, having gorged herself on a fox cub which had foolishly strayed too far from its den. Her teats were full of milk, for she had cubs of her own. She would not leave them for long.

The wolf was unfettered by the lack of light. Here, where the trees grew at their thickest and wildest and a million leaves blocked out both sun and moon alike, even summer nights were of the darkest kind. The wolf’s lamp-like eyes had a feral glow to them which, though muted, was more than enough to light her path. She stalked boldly through the woody acres, for this was her domain and there was little in it that she feared.

Her nostrils flared as she went, and she caught the interlopers’ scent before she heard them. Holding her body as rigid as a century-old oak, she sniffed again. Here was a scent that lifted the fur on the back of her neck. Here was a scent that brought a low, rumbling growl to the base of her throat. Here was something the wolf did fear. Here was man.

The she-wolf had sense to keep her growl locked in her throat. Poised on her pads, ears pricked, she sniffed, judging the magnitude of the threat. She heard a cry, one of hunger, and when her teats ached in instant response, instinct told her that the men must have a baby with them. The wolf cocked her head to one side, wondering why the hateful yellow heat which men always placed besides them was not there now. There were other scents the wolf recognised; horse, and mule. The cry came again, her full teats burned, and lowering herself to her belly, she edged round the men’s encampment to keep her own scent from reaching the horses. She crept closer. The smell of fear hung in the air.

Cloaks were spread out over the carpet of leaves and debris on the forest floor, like islands in a pool crowded with water weeds. A man and a woman were seated on one of the islands; they had a child and a baby with them. The baby was quiet now, sucking milk from a cup held by the woman. On the other cloak, not two feet away from this group, another man sat alone.

‘Katarin?’ The woman whispered to the child. Her words meant nothing to the wolf. ‘Would you like more bread?’

The child shook her head. It was this child, the wolf realised, who smelt most strongly of fear. The isolated man, whose gaze was abstracted, was staring fixedly at his knee-high boots.

‘Katarin? Please try to answer.’ The woman’s voice had a thread of desperation running through it, and the man with the boots looked across at her. ‘Would you like more bread, Katarin? Some milk?’

The child shook her head.

‘It’s no use badgering her,’ the man seated next to the woman spoke. His hair gleamed white through the darkness. ‘She’ll answer you when she’s ready.’

‘Don’t worry, mistress.’ The man with the boots stirred. ‘It’s a temporary affliction. The child was hurt at Kermaria.’

‘But, Alan, she bears no wound. I’ve examined every inch of her.’

‘It’s not her body that was wounded. I’ve seen similar illnesses before – in soldiers returning from battle. They escaped apparently unscathed, yet they too were struck dumb for a time. I have observed how it tends to afflict those with a more...delicate cast of mind. It passes.’

‘But how long? How long till she heals?’

‘I cannot say. Your sister seems strong in her body, but who can say what is going on in a child’s mind – in anyone’s mind? Give her time.’ He stretched himself out on his cloak and dragged it over his shoulders. ‘Get to sleep as soon as you can. We’ll be on the move at first light.’

An owl hooted, and the she-wolf watched until the humans’ stirrings ceased. The smell of fear thickened, and by it the wolf knew that the child was not asleep. Curious, and certain now that the interlopers intended her no harm, the wolf watched, and waited. The smell of another’s fear was a potent attraction.

The little girl stirred and sat up. Next to her, the woman sighed in her sleep, but she did not waken. The child got to her feet and began walking in a line that would lead her directly to the wolf. The wolf tensed, not to spring, for she was not hungry, but ready to fly for cover.

‘Katarin,’ the solitary man was awake, ‘where are you going?’

The wind shook the leaves and there was silence.

The solitary man sighed, got up, and walked through the coal-black night to where the child hovered on the edge of the clearing. He stopped not three feet away from the wolf’s twitching nose. Close up, the toes of his boots were shiny and polished. ‘Can’t you sleep, Katarin?’ he asked, gently.

Doubtfully, the girl shook her head.

The man lowered himself to the child’s level, and made his voice smile, ‘Are you afraid?’

The shake was more positive.

‘Not afraid, eh?’ The man gave an amused snort. ‘You’re braver than I would be in your shoes, Katarin. Perhaps you are cold?’

The child considered this, and nodded.

‘So am I, Katarin. And I’m lonely on my own. Come, you’ll be warmer with me. Would you like to sleep with me?’ He held his palm out towards her, and the child took it without hesitating.

‘Sensible girl,’ the man murmured, and picking her up, he carried her back to his cloak.

The smell of fear was diffused now, broken up by the breeze. The she-wolf’s milk-filled teats reminded her of her young, and she crept soundlessly away. When she had put a good distance between her and the interlopers, she stood upright and raced off, a dark streak in a darker night, to see her cubs were safe.