Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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‘Choose?’

Yolande ground her teeth. Those innocent brown eyes looked warm as melted honey, but they didn’t blind her for a moment. Her lover was playing for time. ‘You know what I mean. If you don’t decide soon, by the Rood I’ll decide for you!’ She had always been generous with her love, never withholding an ounce of it from Jean, despite the fact that he had never married her as he had promised. It was not that Yolande questioned his love for her. No, she was certain of that, but she had never known whether his love was out-ranked by his ambition. It was vaulting ambition that had kept him from marrying her all these years. She must play the concubine while he affected to chase after a Frenchwoman. He had it all planned out. He had maintained that he never intended to marry Louise Foucard and Yolande had believed him. He would never have married the Foucard woman, not while marrying Yolande Herevi might bring him better gains. If Izabel’s old claim to the family lands was ever ratified, Yolande Herevi would be worth her weight in gold. As ever, Jean kept his feet in two camps.

He jerked his grizzled head towards the ceiling. ‘Do the children know?’

‘Know what? That they’re yours? That they’re bastards,’ her lover flinched, ‘and that, though you swore you’d marry me years ago, you’ve not honoured that promise? You made me what I am, Jean, and now...now I begin to think you’re ashamed of me.’

Jean reached out a finger and gently touched her cheek. ‘Not ashamed, love, never that. Politics has dictated my actions. The time has not been ripe.’ Jean lowered his eyes to stare at the ring which adorned the little finger of his left hand. ‘If only Waldin would retire from the lists.’

‘Your brother?’ Yolande snorted. ‘The moon will turn green before that happens. Everyone knows how the great tourney champion Waldin St Clair is married to the lists. He’ll not leave the circuit till age or infirmity drive him away.’

Mournfully, Jean agreed, ‘I know.’ He brightened, ‘but when he does retire we could use his name to drum up support. Men might not like to ally themselves with a poor knight, but with Waldin at our side...’

‘Sometimes,’ Yolande murmured softly, ‘I wonder if you are afraid.’

Jean shot her a sharp look, bridling, but her smile had disarmed him, as she hoped it would. To Yolande, and Yolande alone, Jean St Clair could confess to fear. His shoulders drooped. ‘Who would not be afraid?’ He smiled. ‘As a mere knight I’ve never had the manpower to uphold our claim to your mother’s inheritance. De Roncier would have wiped us out before we had begun. No, love, I believed it to be safer for you and the children if he thought you were no threat. As my mistress you pose no threat. As a wife who could provide me with a legitimate male heir, an heir to those lands of your mother’s, it becomes altogether a different kettle of fish.’

‘So I believed, until today.’ Yolande drifted away from him. ‘Have you heard the latest gossip concerning your Frenchwoman?’

‘La belle Louise?’ He grinned and smoothed his greying moustache. ‘You’re not jealous? I thought you understood I’ve been ingratiating myself with her family in order to lull de Roncier’s suspicions. If he believes I am considering an alliance with the French, he’d not harm you. Come, sweet. Don’t be angry. You know I’ll never marry her.’ He directed a smile she recognised as one of his best at her.

‘Why do you think he took it into his head to loose his dogs on Gwenn?’ Yolande asked, eyeing him closely.

‘I’m blessed if I know.’

‘Perhaps he heard that Louise has got tired of waiting and has married another.’ That was the rumour that was flying round the town.

He stared, moustache drooping, face ludicrous with dismay.

Yolande had to laugh. ‘It never occurred to you did it? You never stopped to think that your French flower might not wait for ever. You’ve been dangling her on a string for years. Of course, it might not be true, but my source was good.’

‘Source?’

‘Father Mark, who married her.’

Jean’s eyes looked cloudy and confused. ‘Christ, I go away for a week’s hunting and look what happens. She kept that dark. I thought she’d wait.’

‘Such arrogance needs humbling, my love.’

‘So that’s why he moved today,’ Jean murmured.

‘Don’t test my loyalty to the limit,’ Yolande said. ‘Don’t be certain I’ll wait forever. I, too, may get tired of waiting.’

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Nay, love. What of our ambitions?’

‘Our ambitions?’ Yolande knew her laugh was brittle. ‘The only ambition I have ever had is to be able to tell my children and my mother that I am your lawful wife. With all my heart I wish that our children were legitimate, but it would take a Papal decree to accomplish that.’

‘Do they know I’m their father?’

‘No. Aye. Oh, I don’t know. Jean, my life is becoming a tangle of lies and deceit. Raymond heard the townsfolk tattling – you can’t keep a fifteen year old boy in the dark – and I had to admit the truth to the boy.’

Jean’s eyes were bleak. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘There must be an end to the lies. Take us to Kermaria.’

‘Kermaria?’ Yolande’s lover shook his head. ‘I’ve neglected it sadly. Kermaria’s a backwater.’

‘I’d live in hell if it meant my children would be safe! And my mother longs to leave Vannes. Izabel is conscious of great shame here. She has always hated it.’

‘I doubt she minds,’ Jean said with a flash of dark humour. ‘Shame is a cross your mother likes to bear. There’s something of the martyr in her.’

‘Jean!’

‘Believe me, she enjoys it.’

‘You say that because it suits you. You say that because you don’t want to take us.’

‘It’s no use your turning those green eyes on me,’ Jean said stiffly. ‘It’s not a time of my choosing.’

‘Not a time of your choosing!’ Yolande lost grip of her temper. ‘I’ve been waiting sixteen years for the time to be right! When will it be right, that’s what I want to know? When?’

‘It could spoil every–’

‘It could kill our children, if that thieving vulture strikes again!’ She saw Jean’s jaw harden.

‘Be reasonable, woman,’ he said, striking a fist against his thigh. ‘It’s for the best. Think of our children’s future.’

‘Our children’s future?’ Yolande spoke so quietly that Jean had to bend his head to hear her. ‘If you sacrifice any more of the present, they’ll have no future left.’

Sighing, Jean draped an arm round her. ‘It won’t be for much longer. I’ll write to Waldin.’

‘Waldin? Pah! You’ve not been in touch for years.’

‘I’ll write,’ Jean insisted, ‘and enlist his aid. We were close before he left to fight his way through the tourneys. He may be a champion, but I don’t think he will resist a call to arms from his brother. Waldin will come home, and you, my love, will be forced to eat your scornful words. Soon we’ll be in a position to strike. Soon.’

‘And you’ll take us to Kermaria?’ If Jean refused her, Yolande would be forced to sell the gem and flee.

The knight stared at her, brown eyes shielded, and Yolande stared back at him, balling her hands so that the nails dug into her palms. ‘Sometimes, Jean,’ she muttered, ‘I think that I hate you.’ She had come to the end of her tether.

He capitulated. ‘Of course, my love, we’ll go to Kermaria.’

Yolande closed her eyes, unaware that the intensity of her relief made her face haggard. ‘Thank the Lord.’ She let her head rest on Jean’s familiar shoulder. ‘I pray this tangle can be unravelled soon. I’m tired of living in fear. Our children have a right to be safe.’ Moving out of her lover’s arms, she crossed to the shutter and fastened it with a snap. She glanced up at the rafters; she could hear movement upstairs. ‘Jean, when shall I tell them we’re going?’

He shrugged. ‘Whenever you like.’

Yolande smiled.

***

That evening, without consulting Izabel, Yolande decided to remove the diamond from its resting place in the cedar wood base of the Virgin.

Gwenn’s ordeal had been a poignant reminder of the vulnerability of their position; and until her family was safely housed at Kermaria, Yolande was taking no chances. The gem was all the security she had, and she wanted it safely in her personal keeping. The jewel had once belonged to de Roncier’s grandmother, Andaine, and he might know of it. He might strike again.

Waiting till her mother’s bedchamber was empty, Yolande crept in and twisted the wooden plinth from the statue. A leather pouch fell from the secret cavity. Opening the pouch, Yolande removed the gemstone and dropped it into the purse at her belt.

There was a danger that Izabel might decide to look at the diamond, but Yolande had thought of that. She had a substitute in the pocket of her bliaud. It was a sunstone, or sailor’s stone, so named because pieces of quartz like it were once used in navigation. Its shape roughly resembled the gem’s. It would not bear close inspection, for the sunstone was cloudy and chipped – it had none of the sharp brilliance of the valuable jewel. But if her mother were to make an inspection, she would most likely to do so at night when there was less chance of Raymond or Gwenn discovering her. Weighing the sunstone in her hands, Yolande smiled with satisfaction. Its weight matched that of the real gem. Carefully, she put the sunstone in the pouch and tightened the strings. As long as Izabel didn’t look too closely, she might not remark on the difference. The exchange would give Yolande a little time, and would save her from lengthy and tedious explanations. There was little to be gained in alarming her mother with her fears. Once they reached Kermaria, Yolande would replace the real gem.

Pushing the pouch into its neat hollow, Yolande re-fixed the base and returned the statue to the shelf in front of Izabel’s prie-dieu. Then she tiptoed from the chamber.

Chapter Four

Five miles outside Vannes, Count François de Roncier’s favourite residence glowed in the moonlight like a monstrous egg nestling on a wooded hilltop. Once part of the de Wirce patrimony, the castle was known as the Château Ivoire to the French-speaking section of the population. The name derived from the fact that an earlier lord, Dagobert de Wirce, had whitewashed every wall of his castle, inside and out. Keep, bailey wall, curtain wall – everything down to the last pebble had been painted white. ‘My château,’ Dagobert had declared, ‘will shine bright as a beacon. It will be visible for miles, and all who look upon it will be reminded of my authority. No one will dare to challenge me.’

And now, though the ancient paint was cracked and peeling, and the wash was more grey than white, Château Ivoire still clung to its ancient name. A different lord was master now, but when the moon floated full and bright in a clear, cloudless sky, the old grey walls continued to blaze their defiant challenge into the encircling darkness.

The native Bretons had a less romantic name for the Count’s château – to them it was simply Huelgastel, or High Castle.

The castle solar was lit by four flaring cressets. It was close on midnight, but the Dowager Countess, Marie de Roncier, had not retired. She sat before the stone fireplace, in the loose black garment she considered suitable for her newly widowed status. A tapestry warmed her knees. The mother of François, Marie had seen the old Count, her adored husband Robert, buried less than a month ago.

Marie de Roncier was tired. She longed for the comfort and privacy of her bed, but she had a bone to pick with her son and was waiting up for him. Her vigil was a lonely one, for her daughter-in-law, Eleanor, and her granddaughter by her son’s first marriage, Arlette, had said their goodnights hours ago and she had only a tongue-tied young maid for company.

The Countess was making a poor pretence at working on the tapestry. Always a slender woman, grief had wasted away what little flesh she had, and the hands that rested on the tapestry were skeleton thin. Notwithstanding, she kept her back as straight as a spear. Her head was as high and haughty as a queen’s. Marie de Roncier gazed at the world past a splendid beak of a nose, and her jet-black eyes glared with a habitual defiance that the years had done nothing to diminish. Only the red circles faintly rimming her eyes betrayed human weakness. She had been weeping, but the set of eyes and head were fierce enough to keep sympathy at bay. Sagging folds of skin covered her cheekbones; they had a bruised look to them, which even the wavering cresset lights could not obscure. Bitter lines were firmly etched about a pale, thin mouth. Marie de Roncier had the air of a woman who had not laughed in a century.

Two iron firedogs held the burning logs in place in the great stone fireplace, preventing them from rolling onto the rush-covered floorboards. At the Countess’s side her maid, Lena, crouched on a stool. The girl was working on the tapestry despite the gloom. Being newly promoted from the laundry, she was in awe of her mistress. The tapestry, several yards long, was half worked. It depicted a hunting scene and bore the family coat of arms, of cinquefoils on argent in a circlet of black thorns. It had originally been destined for Marie de Roncier’s bedchamber, but now that her husband was gone, both bedchamber and tapestry must of course devolve to her son – and his Countess, Eleanor.

Marie sighed, something she invariably did when she thought about her current daughter-in-law. She did not believe for a moment that François’ useless second wife had gone to bed. ‘It’s more likely the woman’s wearing out her knees in the chapel praying that God might grant her a son,’ she muttered.

‘Countess?’

‘Nothing, girl.’ Marie answered in Breton for the benefit of her maid, who mangled French like the washerwoman she was. ‘I’m thinking aloud, and I’ll thank you to close your ears.’

‘Aye, madame.’ Diligently, Lena bent over her work, leaving Marie to muse in peace.

Eleanor had married François seven years ago, and in all that time there had been no sign of her quickening. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the woman was barren. The fault must lay at Eleanor’s door, not at her son’s, for had not François already got twelve year old Arlette out of his first wife, Joan? And later Joan had produced a boy child – a sickly infant who had not lived three days. Joan had not been barren. Would that Joan had lived, but she had caught an infection and had only out-lived her son by only a day. Joan and her babe had been buried together. And two years after Joan’s death, François had married Eleanor. After that there had been no more babies, not even girls.

A rustling in a corner brought a grimace to Marie’s thin lips. Mice again. She would have to remind young Arlette that she was doing the household no favours by over-feeding the cats. Wielding her needle like a dagger, Marie jabbed it into the wall-hanging. Then, holding her work at arm’s length the better to inspect it, she flung her section of the tapestry into the rushes. ‘It’s little more than a bird’s nest,’ she declared disgustedly. ‘My son will think I’ve gone senile on him. I used to set a fine stitch, Lena. I don’t know why I bother, I think I’ll let you finish it. You have a neat hand.’

‘It is very dark, my lady,’ Lena said, soothingly, ‘and the torches give an unsteady light. I could fetch a lantern, or more candles.’ She sprang to her feet with a litheness the older woman envied, and retrieved the dropped section of needlework. Grasses from the rush carpet clung to the fabric. Lena shook it, folded it, and set it neatly on a bench. This done, she looked to her mistress. ‘My lady?’

The embittered mouth eased when Marie saw the girl waiting meekly for her agreement. A tactful maid – that was rare. This Lena showed promise, she clearly had more sense than most her age. ‘Never mind, Lena,’ Marie relaxed enough to yawn. ‘My fingers are too stiff to sew any more. I’ve been waiting in vain. I’ll prepare myself for bed. The Count cannot be coming home tonight.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’

‘Pass me my stick and give me your arm. My legs have seized up with too much idling about.’ A distant door slammed, and a series of crashes and thuds floated up the stairwell. ‘Who the Devil disturbs the peace at this hour?’

Lena flushed. ‘It... I think it is your son, Countess. He...the Count must have returned.’

In confirmation of the maid’s words, François de Roncier erupted into the solar, spurs a-jangle and thick riding boots thumping across the wooden floorboards. Windblown, his jowls had a brazier’s glow to them.

Marie drew herself up and raised a disapproving brow. With her son she invariably spoke in French. ‘You’re wearing your sword in the solar, François.’

Mail gauntlets chinked like bags of money as the Count removed then and tossed them onto the table. They landed next to a wooden puzzle box Marie had asked Arlette to tidy away earlier. ‘Too busy feeding the cats,’ Marie muttered, clicking her tongue in irritation. It was plain her granddaughter needed a talking to.

Meek as a lamb, her son was unbuckling his sword belt. ‘Here, girl,’ he threw his belt at Lena, ‘drop this on the window seat, will you?’

The maid’s flush deepened, and Marie drew her own conclusions. She made no comment, for it was beneath her dignity to comment on her son’s philanderings with the lower orders. What a pity, she thought, reassessing her maid. The girl is just another common trollop. But she’s probably fertile, an unwelcome voice nagged inside her; she might be only a mindless peasant, but it is possible that she will be carrying your bastard grandchild in a couple of months. While delicate, high-bred Eleanor...

But this night, Marie had other matters on her mind. ‘Well, François? Have you got rid of them?’

‘They’ll be gone soon.’ François’ grin was that of a contented man. ‘Father Jerome created quite a storm.’

‘I feared he might,’ Marie acknowledged, adding a crease to her brow. ‘I mislike him, but there’s no doubting his genius with words.’

‘He’s dangerous.’ François shook his head, reflectively. ‘You should have heard him. He’s headier than any wine I’ve ever tasted. He had the townsfolk in the palm of his hand, itching to cleanse every alley in the place. And men who had lain with a whore not an hour before were fighting among themselves to be the first to serve his will.’

‘But did they frighten them?’ Marie was half afraid of what the answer might be. Izabel Herevi was her sister, and mad though she was... ‘It was them you were set on frightening.’

‘We had a stroke of luck. The girl was in the church.’

‘With Iz–’ Marie broke off, recollecting in time the presence of her maid. The girl’s French was virtually non-existent, but it was better to say no names out loud lest they were repeated to Eleanor or Arlette who had been kept in ignorance of their lost relations. ‘With the old woman?’

‘No, she was alone.’

Marie hissed on an indrawn breath. ‘And?’

François tramped to the fire and spread his hands before the blaze. ‘She led the mob straight to the house. It couldn’t have gone better.’

Marie clenched her stick. ‘They were not hurt?’

Her son’s russet brows came together. ‘Mother, we’ve been through all this. Who are they to threaten me? Would you have me play the woman’s role? I’ll not wait upon events.’

‘Robert never lifted a finger against her.’

‘No, and you know why that was, don’t you?’

Marie reeled back as though she’d been struck in the face. ‘François, how could you?’

‘I’m sorry, ma mère, but it’s the truth. Father never lifted a finger against Izabel Herevi because he loved her. She jilted him, but still he loved her.’ Callously, François rubbed salt into a wound that he knew had never healed in over thirty years. ‘Face it, Maman. Your Robert is dead, and I am Count now. I’m not a man to leave loose ends lying about. That land is mine, and I will be rid of them, whatever the cost.’

Marie sank onto a bench and rested her back against the table. ‘Whatever the cost?’

‘Aye. I never trusted St Clair for all that he was courting the Foucard woman. He’s a jumped-up knight with eyes on my rights. I’ll teach him to covet the possessions of his betters.’

‘But they’re family, François.’ Marie thought the years had turned her to rock, but her son’s ruthlessness made her shrink. ‘Izabel’s your aunt!’

‘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.’