Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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Текущая страница: 33 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

‘Now,’ she agreed. ‘Only, please, hold me...’ And putting her hands to his hips, she pulled him towards her.

His body joined hers as though they had been made for one another, and he smothered her gasp of surprise with his mouth. She fitted him like a glove. He kissed her with rough passion, and when her hands slid up his back, they loosed a shudder of delight that shook his whole frame. Alan began to move inside her, and heard his voice, hoarse, call her name.

‘Love me, Alan.’ Dimly he made out her words. Each thrust brought him nearer the edge. ‘Love me...as hard...as you can. Oh, Alan... Alan. Hold me tight.’

This last was unnecessary, for he was already holding her more tightly than he had held any woman. He wanted to be closer, to merge with her. ‘Gwenn.’ He gasped his delight in her ear. She was kissing his neck in glorious abandon, licking him, biting his skin. Her hips arched to his, she twined her feet round his calves, and pushed and pushed and pushed towards his every thrust.

‘Alan. Oh, Alan.’

Her soft, delirious cries filled the tent, the most potent aphrodisiac on earth. He wanted it to last forever. What a transformation, he thought in wonder, from the shy creature he had held in his arms a moment ago. He felt his climax approaching. ‘No...no. Not yet.’ He almost screamed in frustration. ‘Tell me you hate it.’

He was astonished to hear a throaty giggle. ‘I hate it.’

Startled, and put off his stride, he lifted his head and looked into brown eyes that were as soft and welcoming as a man could wish. He was deep in passion’s thrall, but despite this, an answering smile tugged his lips. He moved inside her.

She let out a gratifying groan of purely shameless pleasure. ‘I hate it, Alan,’ she gasped, pushing at his hips when he stopped moving. Insides dissolving, Alan managed another thrust. ‘I hate it.’ He rewarded her with another. ‘I hate it.’ One more. ‘I hate it. I... Oh!’

He was witness to the wonder which flared in her eyes, and for one glorious moment she looked at him as though he were a god. Then, shuddering and pulsing all over, she closed her eyes and hid her face in his chest. Her delight was too much for him, and a couple of thrusts later, it was over for him too.

***

Berthe, the middle-aged alewife at the Sun Inn, stood by her cooking fire with her arms akimbo and regarded the blond foreigner who had drunk her out of mead.

The last of her customers to leave, he was a large lad – a Norseman most likely – and currently he looked harmless enough with his helmet at his feet and his corn-coloured head slumped over her trestle. The discarded remnants of a meal sat at his elbow. But Berthe had seen it all before, and she knew appearances could be deceptive. She reached for a broom, and thus armed, approached him. Prodding him roughly on the shoulder, she did not wait for him to stir, but asked, ‘You sleeping here, laddie, or will you be leaving?’

She didn’t see him move, not so much as a flutter of the heavy eyelids, but suddenly, one ham of a hand whipped out, caught hold of the broom handle, and before Berthe had time to drop it, she was hauled towards two red-rimmed blue eyes and an untidy beard.

The eyes blinked. ‘I don’t like your tone, mistress,’ the stranger said.

Berthe didn’t like his, but prudently decided not to tell him. ‘Sir?’ She was not alarmed, all she had to do was give a shriek, and her Alfred would charge in from the storeroom. It gave a woman confidence to have a husband like her Alfred. Simple, but strong, and completely devoted to her. What woman wanted more from a man?

The Viking released the broom and Berthe took couple of precautionary steps backwards. ‘What did you want, woman?’ He scowled into his empty cup.

‘I’m locking up,’ she told him, bluntly. ‘And if you want to stop here, there’ll be the price of the bed to pay for. In advance.’ Berthe had learned the hard way. People with infinitely more charm than this fellow had slept in her beds and blithely skipped off before sunrise without settling their debts. She was wise to that trick and was not about to let this one try it on her. The Norseman’s bloodshot eyes were sharp and cunning, and cold as a wolf’s. So cold they made Berthe want to shiver. He smiled, and Berthe did not like his smile any more than his eyes. He slapped a coin on the table and her heart sank. She did not want this one to stop here. Like as not he’d slit their throats in the night and skip off with the takings.

‘I won’t be staying,’ he said, and relief flooded through her. ‘I want information. I’m looking for a young woman, name of Gwenn Her...Fletcher. She’s Breton; small, very dark, and travelling with an armed soldier. They were last seen riding north along this road. Have you seen them?’

Berthe remembered the couple who had eaten at the alehouse earlier and gone on. A nice-looking couple, obviously recently wed and very much in love. She recalled the man calling the girl Gwenn. ‘Friends of yours?’ she asked.

The stranger gave Berthe another spine-chilling smile. ‘Oh, aye. We go way back.’

The alewife didn’t like the foreigner, and neither did she believe him. ‘I’ve not seen them,’ she said, firmly.

The dead eyes narrowed to slits. ‘They were riding this way.’

His gaze was boring holes in her, but Berthe was determined not to flinch. ‘I’ve not seen them,’ she repeated, and scooping up his coin, tossed it back to him. ‘Here, take this and be on your way.’

‘They were seen this morning.’

‘They may well have been on this road, sir.’ Berthe made her voice as casual and convincing as she could, for though she had Alfred dozing in the back, this man had succeeding in frightening her. ‘But they could have turned off, or they might have ridden past without stopping. Whatever, I’ve not seen them.’

Pouching his coin, the Norseman stood up and his stool toppled to the floor with a crack. Berthe winced. He was a tower of a man, no question of that. He caught her wrist and leaned towards her. ‘If I find you’ve lied to me, woman, I’ll come back and flay you alive.’

‘I’m not lying,’ Berthe said, steadily.

Walking to the door, the stranger paused and threw her a final, terrible smile. ‘I hope for your sake you’re not.’

***

Gwenn woke at dawn to a chorus of birdsong and a luxurious feeling of warmth and contentment. She had slept properly for the first time in over a week. She was lying on her side, and one of Alan’s arms was draped around her shoulders. His hand rested lightly, protectively, on her breast. She didn’t move for fear of waking him and breaking the spell of the moment. She breathed in his fragrance, happy to drowse, happy to remember the joy of giving herself to him. She had not known, had had no idea, that making love could be so astoundingly beautiful.

How was it that Alan who had not said a word about love had managed to loose a storm of sensation in her, while Ned who confessed his love daily, had left her almost unmoved? Gwenn beginning to accept that Alan found her as attractive as she found him. Was he beginning to care for her? Did he need her as much as she suspected she needed him? He was certainly looking after her. But no, she must not get carried away because he happened to be a good lover. Alan had wanted to come to England anyway, he was not here for her sake. She must remember who she was dealing with. This was Alan le Bret, a man who prided himself on his independence, a man totally unlike his cousin.

As Gwenn thought of Ned, the miserable knot in her stomach made itself felt once more. Her sense of wellbeing diminished. Making love with Alan had banished her unhappiness, but only for a time. She supposed she ought to be grateful for little blessings.

‘Gwenn?’

She turned and, gazing into dove-grey eyes that were sleepy and smiling and soft as the dawn, was attacked by a painful rush of longing. If only he would always look at her like that; as though he did love her, as though he did need her. Hastily, she pulled herself together. That tender look would vanish when he was fully awake. It was only there because they had been lovers last night. Besides, love brought pain. Alan had learned that years ago. What would it take to teach her the lesson?

‘Good morning,’ she smiled shyly, suddenly conscious of her lack of clothes and of their intimacy.

‘Regretting it already?’ he asked, quietly.

‘N...no.’

‘You liked it.’

It was a statement, but she took it as a question. ‘Aye. And so, I think, did you.’

Alan did not deny it, and let his fingers wander through the silky strands of her hair. Her mouth had a bruised look to it. He was tempted to kiss it and take the taste of her onto his tongue again. His loins throbbed, and inwardly he cursed. He had hoped to be free of the demon desire this morning. He stretched his arms above his head. They should be getting up, but he felt very lazy, very comfortable where he was. Forcing himself upright, he noticed Gwenn’s saddlebag lay where he had left it by the entrance. That had been careless, in view of what it contained, but fortunately it didn’t look as though it had been rifled while they slept. Perhaps a discussion about the contents would quell his ardour.

He told himself that he was not picking this topic because he wanted her to trust him. Far from it, he was trying to distract himself from the feel of the warm, relaxed thigh pressed against his. He was trying to prove that he didn’t want to roll over with her in his arms and make love to her just one more time...

Her eyes were on his mouth, and he wished they weren’t. It was very distracting. ‘Ned wasn’t carrying anything valuable in his pack was he?’ he opened, cautiously.

She jerked, and turned her eyes away. ‘V...valuable? No, I don’t think so. Like you, he took to carrying our money on his person. Why?’

Smiling, he pressed on. ‘And you? Do you keep things of worth in your bag?’

She sat up, cloak clutched to her breasts, and he couldn’t miss the apprehensive look she shot at the saddlebag, nor the lines of tension which appeared round her mouth. ‘Anything of worth? Whatever are you talking about?’

Alan’s smile died. She would not trust him. She was not going to confide in him. Doggedly, he continued, praying she would change her mind. ‘In France, at the tourney, I caught someone sneaking into the tent.’

‘You never told us.’

‘I saw no point. I thought I’d routed a thief.’ Alan patted the purse which hung round his neck. ‘You know I carry my valuables on me. I wondered if the man was after something that you or Ned were carrying.’

Her cheeks emptied of colour. ‘No,’ she said, very curt, and hunched her shoulder on him in that dismissive way of hers. ‘Cut-purses aren’t selective. They go for anything they can lay their hands on, don’t they? There’s no reason to assume your thief was after something in particular.’

‘That was what I thought, the first time. But when I found him hanging around the second time–’

‘Second time?’

Alan wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Gwenn had gone a shade whiter. Trust me, Gwenn. Please trust me. ‘Yes, he was lurking by the King’s cookhouse, eyeing my tent as if waiting his chance. I concluded he must be searching for something special.’

‘I can’t think what.’

‘Can’t you?’ Alan reached for her chin, and gently brought it round. Her eyes were hooded. Crushing an overpowering feeling of disappointment, he added, ‘I recognised the thief, the second time.’

‘Re...recognised him?’ She had forgotten to hold the cloak over her breasts and was twisting the material into a ball.

Fighting a yearning to slide his hands about her face and kiss her till she was senseless, Alan peeled his hand from her chin. Her lack of trust betrayed her lack of feeling for him, but the knowledge did not douse the fire she had lit in his veins. Where was his pride?

‘I’d seen him before, in Vannes.’ Alan gave her time to digest his announcement. ‘Our sneak thief was a pedlar who went by the name of Conan.’

Frantic fingers clutched his forearm. ‘Did you say Conan? From Vannes? Johanna, Philippe’s nurse, had a brother called Conan, a pedlar. Oh, God. I don’t understand.’ She shoved her hair over her shoulders.

Alan threw what pride he had left to the wind. A few, simple words, but it was the hardest thing he had ever done. ‘Gwenn, trust me. I’d like to help.’

The eyes that stared out of the pale, discomposed face were distraught, but this did not hide their astonishment. ‘Help? You can’t help.’ Reaching for her undergown, Gwenn dragged it over her head, murmuring distractedly, ‘I must think. Pass me my gown, Alan, I’m going to wash.’

Complying with her request, Alan held down a sigh and grabbed his breeches and chainse.

***

They were proceeding along another dusty English highway. Gwenn had been lost in gloomy reverie for hours. The sun was sinking towards the west, and Alan had not decided where they would stop that night. He saw her launch a furtive glance over her shoulder, not her first by any means. She had been doing that at intervals all day. Sometimes she turned her face towards him, but he knew she hardly saw him. She was riding in another world, and it wasn’t the one he inhabited.

‘Gwenn, don’t be afraid.’ On impulse, he reached for her hand. ‘What is it? If it’s the pedlar, forget him. He can’t trouble us.’

‘How so?’

‘He was murdered the same day that Ned...’ a shadow crossed her face, and Alan cursed himself.

Gwenn glanced at the hand clasping hers, admitting she warmed to his touch. All day she had studiously avoided contact with him, half afraid that if she touched him, it would spark off the extraordinary passion they had shared the night before. Alan made her feel, and she wasn’t sure she could cope with it. She didn’t want to become dependent on him. What would happen when they reached Sword Point and had to part? She could not bear any more losses. Gently, she withdrew her hand. ‘Why do the good have to die, Alan?’

‘The good? I doubt that the pedlar–’

‘I’m not referring to him. I’ve been thinking about Ned and my family, all of them good people in their way. I’m not saying that they were perfect, no one is. But they didn’t deserve to die. I feel betrayed, not by them, they couldn’t fight fortune. But I loved them all. God has betrayed me.’ Her smile was crooked. ‘My grandmother would have been very shocked to hear me say that. Is it blasphemy, Alan?’

Alan regarded her helplessly and wished he had a gift with words. An impassable gulf yawned between them. Gwenn was educated. From an early age, she had sat with her brother and poured over his books. She could read and write. Her education enabled her to puzzle out the finer nuances of her feelings and come to some understanding of herself. But while Alan spoke three languages passably well, he could neither read nor write. He had no mastery of words, and no glib answers. How did you counter grief such as hers? Biting his lip, it occurred to him that the most learned, silver-tongued churchman in Christendom probably had nothing to offer her.

She may not trust him, not yet, but Alan knew one way to take her mind off her hurts. He brightened and, quite forgetting that he was supposed to have worked her out of his blood, he offered her his hand again.

Gwenn’s heart lifted at Alan’s gesture and, reading the question in his eyes, she gave him a watery smile. Perhaps the carnal comfort Alan offered, however short-lived, was better than nothing. Blushing, she let his warm fingers close tightly over hers.

***

The trail having gone cold on him, Otto was seething when he rode into the village. Village? It wasn’t so much as a village as a stretch of common land enclosed along its length by two tracks edged with an assortment of shabby farmsteads. Empty stocks stood in the centre of the green. Pigs, hobbled by their hindlegs to stakes, were rooting around the common; and the village children were in the bushes, guzzling ripe blackberries, screeching and squabbling over the juicy fruit like a flock of unruly starlings.

Since he’d realised that he had lost Gwenn Fletcher and her escort, Otto had been racking his brains, trying to guess where she was going. Ned Fletcher had come to Brittany from England with his cousin Alan le Bret. Was the concubine’s daughter going to Ned Fletcher’s family? He could think of no other reason for her to be in England. Where was it the two English cousins had hailed from? Somewhere in the north, Otto thought. The word Richmond sprang into his mind. Wasn’t Richmond connected in some way with the Dukedom of Brittany?

Otto wasn’t about to travel that far, not unless he was positive he would catch her. He drew rein by the brambles, near the children. While he pondered what to do, he ran his gaze over the nearby cottages in search of an inn. A drink would slide down beautifully.

No inn. Otto swore, and the children turned purple, juice-stained faces towards him. The youngest – it might have been a girl, Otto was unsure whether the darned sack the child wore was a long tunic or a short gown – stuck its thumb in its blackberry-dyed mouth and stared.

‘I’m lost,’ impatiently, he addressed the children. They took a step back, blinking like wary owls. Selecting his softest voice, he went on, ‘I’m looking for an inn. Where will I find one?’

‘No inn here,’ the elder of the children said. This one was definitely a boy. In chausses and bare-chested, he had freckled skin and a mop of badly cut brown hair which refused to lie flat. Some bramble leaves had stuck in it.

‘Where can I buy food?’

Shrugging, the boy wiped blackberry juice from his cheeks and pointed a dirty finger at the nearest cottage. ‘Try Henry Smith’s. The others went there. His wife sold them bread and cheese.’

‘Others?’

‘Strangers, like you. A man and a woman. They had two horses and a mule,’ the boy said, clearly awed by such riches.

‘Two horses, eh?’ Otto looked suitably impressed and not, he hoped, too eager. It had to be them. He beamed at the children. ‘You like horses, do you, lad? Good ones, were they?’

Vigorously, the boy nodded. ‘The man’s was a wonder, a glossy chestnut racer.’ He paused, adding fairly, ‘The woman’s wasn’t bad either; a pretty brown mare with three white stockings on her feet.’

‘How extraordinary! An acquaintance of mine has just such a mare. You don’t by any chance happen to know if the woman was called Gwenn Fletcher, do you?’

The untidy head shook, and a bramble leaf fluttered to the ground. ‘Didn’t get close enough to hear her name. But I think the woman called the man Alan.’

‘Alan, you say?’ His tone had the children backing into the bushes. ‘Not Alan le Bret?’ Surely the concubine’s daughter would never hire Alan le Bret as her guide and protector? It couldn’t be him. On the other hand, Alan le Bret had been in service with Duke Geoffrey, and he was Ned Fletcher’s cousin. It was possible.

‘Don’t know,’ the boy said. ‘But Mistress Smith might.’

‘Aye, that she might. My thanks, boy.’ And Otto smiled.

Chapter Thirty

Sword Point Farm, so named because it was perched on the southern edge of a sword-shaped spit of land, was owned by the Duchess Constance. Agnes Fletcher and her late husband had been her tenants. Agnes, Ned’s mother, suffered a great shock when her nephew carried the sad tidings to the farm. She had last seen Alan riding off in the company of her son, but instead of bringing her Edward back to her, Alan broke the news of his death.

Accompanying Alan was a Breton lass. She was dark and pretty, with sympathetic brown eyes which were crowded with secrets. Agnes saw the girl’s wedding ring, and something in her manner led Agnes to believe that she was attached to Alan, but Alan had introduced her as Ned’s widow. Her name was Gwenn, and she had shyly announced that she was bearing Ned’s child. Her grandchild.

‘I’ve brought you the money Ned earned,’ Gwenn added with a sweet smile. ‘I know he would wish you to have it.’

Agnes realised that Ned’s wife must stay awhile, so they could get to know each other.

Alan did not stop long at Sword Point; no blame to him, for he had reconciliations to make with his stepfather in Richmond, and was anxious to be on his way. Filled with grief as Agnes was at the tidings, she yet thought it odd that Alan should ride off without so much as a wave or a smile to the girl with whom he had travelled so many long miles. But her nephew had been a cold fish when he had left England, and Agnes had no reason to suppose that he had changed.

After five days Agnes felt she had known Gwenn for years, and she had to shake herself and pinch her arm to remind herself that a week ago she had not even met her. It was not hard for her to see why her son had loved her. Gwenn was kind and patient. She suffered Agnes’s many questions concerning her son with a tolerance unusual in one so young. And then, when Agnes’s greed concerning Ned was satisfied, Agnes started enquiring into Gwenn’s life. Gwenn was hesitant at first, not wanting to reopen old wounds, but Agnes sensed she needed to talk and persisted, and after a few days it all tumbled out, and Gwenn told Agnes the whole, not withholding anything, not even the fact that she and Alan had become lovers on the way to Sword Point.

Gwenn had given Agnes a straight look, and said with disarming frankness, ‘I won’t apologise, Agnes, for it did not affect my relationship with Ned. I never betrayed Ned. It was a comfort. But I do hope you don’t hate me for it.’

‘Hate you?’ Agnes had taken her hand. ‘I couldn’t hate you. My son chose you, and you kept faith with him and have brought me his child.’ Agnes guessed then that Gwenn loved Alan, and had loved him for a long time. She looked closely at her daughter-in-law, and wondered if she knew it, and then Agnes remembered how Gwenn’s brown eyes had stared hungrily after him till he had ridden out of sight round the bend in the road. She knew.

‘Does Alan know? That you love him, I mean.’

Gwenn gave her a startled look, and a faint flush stained her cheeks. She shook her head. ‘No, he doesn’t know.’

Agnes tried to analyse what it had been about the two of them when they had first ridden up and she had seen the ring that made her assume Gwenn was married to her nephew. She recalled Alan taking the Richmond road, riding stiffly in the saddle, carefully, oh, so carefully, not looking back. ‘Why don’t you tell him?’

‘No.’ Gwenn was adamant. ‘He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t need it. And I’m not sure I do. It will only lead to more pain.’

‘But, Gwenn,’ Agnes began to protest, but Gwenn was having none of it, and changed the subject to the Stone Rose, and how she had come to fear it. When she had done, Agnes examined the statue Gwenn had placed on the scrubbed oak table and the gemstone lying in her hand, and for a moment Gwenn’s fear infected her.

‘I have decided it must be evil,’ Gwenn whispered. ‘Everyone who keeps the Stone Rose comes to grief. What do you think will happen to me if I keep it?’

Throwing off her fear, Agnes ladled out some common-sense advice. She told Gwenn she was being over-imaginative. She was suffering from delayed reaction to the crises she had gone through. ‘The Stone Rose is only a statue,’ Agnes said firmly, ‘and a statue – especially one which represents the Mother of Our Lord – could not possibly be evil.’

***

It was Holy Rood Day, and roughly a month since Ned had been killed. Gwenn had been at Sword Point for almost a week. Dancer needed exercising, and Gwenn had fallen easily into her old habit of riding at dawn. Ned had always ridden out with her at Kermaria, and she found herself thinking of him, but as the days passed, the pain of his loss, though still keen, grew less piercing.

The upper road from Richmond to St Agatha’s was lightly wooded, and Gwenn liked to ride that way, for at that time of day she usually had the road to herself. Agnes had reassured her she was perfectly safe on that path, for it snaked round the White Canons’ monastery at Easby – the nearest village to Sword Point – and no outlaw in his right mind ever attacked anyone so close to habitation. From the road, Gwenn could not see the abbey or St Agatha’s Church which the White Canons attended, for their pale stone walls lay beyond a shifting screen of beech, hazel and oak. The trees were trying on their September colours, and ambers and golds were beginning to blend in with the green. They would soon loose their leaves, but for another week or so the abbey would remain concealed. Squirrels leapt and darted among the trees, dropping cob-nut shells onto the road. Pigeons clattered in and out of elders, gorging themselves on the dark, shiny berries. Rooks cawed, and the wind carried the rich, damp scents of autumn.

That Holy Rood Day, Gwenn came upon a White Canon from Easby Abbey. He was a garrulous Englishman with a sun-burned face and an unmonkish pride in his French which bordered on boasting. On discovering Gwenn’s fluency in that tongue, the canon eagerly displayed his erudition and spoke at length about his business in Richmond.

Gwenn gave him half an ear, for she was wondering what Alan had been doing this past week. The lovemaking had enchanted her, it had been more sweet and tender than she could ever have imagined. And on their way north, they had made love often after that first, glorious time. Each time it had been different, each time Gwenn had been more and more certain of her feelings. She loved Alan. Not as a friend, not in the gentle, platonic way that she had loved Ned, but deeply, fiercely, passionately. She loved Alan as a woman loves her man. Alan had had as much pleasure out of their union as she had done, she knew he had. She prayed that he reciprocated her feelings and that in time, he would reveal his love for her. But a week had dragged by. What was he doing? Had she misread him?

The canon, Stephen by name, rattled on. ‘It is no private matter, as everyone knows. Sadly, we are in dispute with the castle over milling rights. I have here,’ Canon Stephen patted his chest, ‘a letter from the steward. We are to discuss his answer in chapter, but I fear the matter is far from resolved. If the villagers at Easby prefer the convenience of our mill to that at the castle, I fail to see why they should not use it.’

Gwenn made sympathetic noises, though she understood that the castle miller would not want to lose the revenues gained from grinding the villagers’ meal any more than the canons would. Whatever this canon might say, the row concerned revenues, not the villagers’ convenience.

Canon Stephen seemed to come to the conclusion that he ought not to be discussing the abbey’s business so freely, for he changed the subject, ‘You speak French well, my child.’

‘So I should. My father was French.’

‘And you are newly come from there?’

‘Aye, though I count myself Breton, not French. I lived in Brittany.’

It was then that the canon loosed his thunderbolt.

‘There’s much traffic these days between Richmond and the Continent,’ he said. ‘People arrive almost every day. Yesterday, while I was consulting with the steward, a horseman rode in. He’d ridden across England, having caught ship in Dieppe.’

Gwenn felt a frisson of fear. She hoped the monk was referring to Alan. ‘What was he like this horseman? Was he a little above medium height, with striking dark features, the son of the castle armourer?’

‘You mean Alan le Bret, Ivon’s lad? I remember Alan. He’s back is he?’

‘He rode in last week.’

‘No, I wasn’t talking about Alan,’ the canon said, blithely unaware of the effect his words were having on the girl keeping pace alongside. ‘But this fellow must be a friend of his, because he came up to me and asked me if I’d seen him. I’m afraid I misled him – I didn’t know Alan was back.’

‘What...what did the horseman look like?’

‘Fair as an angel and fierce as St Michael.’

‘Not...not like a Viking?’

‘Very like. Pardon me, are you feeling alright, my child? You’re white as milk.’

Murmuring disjointedly, Gwenn took abrupt leave of the astonished canon and galloped back to Sword Point.

***

Shutters darkened the large, ground-floor room of the farm cottage. Agnes was still abed.

When Gwenn tore in, out of breath and with her hair hanging in a tangle about her cheeks, Agnes sat up in alarm. ‘Gwenn? What’s amiss? You’re pale as marble.’

‘A horseman rode into the castle last night,’ Gwenn said, voice trembling. ‘He’s come straight from Normandy.’

Heaving up on her pillow, Agnes squinted through the gloom at her daughter-in-law. ‘He’s come, no doubt, with a letter from Duchess Constance.’

Agnes had been maid to Duchess Constance before the Duchess had married the King’s son, and now she was her pensioner.

Gwenn drew near to the bed and put both hands to her forehead, clenching her fists so the white bones in her knuckles showed. ‘No. No. I think not, he sounds like a mercenary I knew in Vannes. He must have heard about the statue – he wants the gem.’ Perspiration dampened her temples. ‘And to think I thought it was over. Oh, Agnes, I prayed we’d left all that behind us. I thought a new land would mean a fresh start. That statue will be our deaths, I know it will.’

Gwenn was only sixteen, but at that moment she looked sixty. She was Ned’s wife, and petite though she was, she was carrying his child. In Ned’s absence, it was Agnes’s place to offer her advice. Agnes thought quickly. ‘You could get rid of it.’

‘Rid of it?’ The great, brown eyes were blank.

‘Yes.’

‘But that would be...’ Gwenn trailed off, chewing a nail with desperate savagery.

‘Sacrilege?’ Agnes could see that her daughter-in-law was terrified. There were fine lines around her eyes and mouth that had not been there yesterday. Agnes pulled Gwenn’s finger from her mouth. ‘Don’t do that.’

Gwenn started, jumpy as a hare, and curled her fingers into a fist. ‘Sorry. But would getting rid of the Stone Rose really help? You said yourself – it’s only a statue. Can a statue of the Blessed Virgin harm anyone?’

‘Gwenn, in your heart you know the statue is not the problem. It’s the gemstone that’s attracting trouble.’

‘I’ve come to loathe the Stone Rose.’