An Honourable Rogue
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Coming briefly down to earth, Rozenn grimaced into the dark. She prayed she could persuade Ivona to accompany her. For if she could not, Ivona was bound to object to her setting off without Adam’s escort. Having something in writing would have backed up her decision.
But…in England, she would have the chance of a new life. Once in England—Rozenn’s lips curved—there would be no debts, no ignominious past to shame her. No one in England would realise why she had been christened Rose. No one in England would ever think, ‘there goes that girl whose mother abandoned her by the rosebush outside the White Bird’.
In England Rose would meet Adam’s new Anglo- Saxon wife—what had the messenger said her name was? Cecily, Lady Cecily of Fulford. And after that, Adam would direct her to Sir Richard…
Ben Silvester, wandering minstrel? Hah! She was aiming higher than that, she was aiming for a knight.
Turning over, Rozenn thumped her pillow, and determinedly cleared her mind of the image of Ben Silvester, Breton lute-player with the roguish smile, and instead set about conjuring up the face and features of Sir Richard of Asculf, Norman knight.
Down by the Quimperlé docks, at the confluence of the two rivers, some of the customers in the Barge were getting rowdy.
Benedict Silvester was wearing his dull brown cloak, the one he wore when trying to blend into the background. His lute was stowed in its leather bag and slung over his shoulder, hopefully well out of harm’s way. Keeping the hood of his cloak up and his face in the shadows, he nevertheless seemed to have attracted attention. He didn’t like the look in the eyes of the men hunched over their cups at the next trestle, particularly the one in the greasy leather jerkin. That broken nose matched the man’s general air of belligerence. Doubtless, the man was a brawler. Had he observed Ben’s interest in their conversation? Had the man marked his features?
He hoped not, but it was possible. Ben shrank deeper into his hood, and gazed into his wine. He’d not been back in Quimperlé above two hours, and if he was to remain useful to Duke Hoël, he must not court trouble.
When the man glanced Ben’s way for the second time, Ben realised events could take an ugly turn. Wishing he had left his lute in the care of the stable boy guarding his horse, Ben dropped a coin on the table and edged to the door. His lute must not get damaged. It had once belonged to his father and it gave him good cover, cover which was vital because it drew attention away from his real work, his work for the Duke of Brittany.
Outside, the River Laïta gleamed like pitch in the moonlight, and a couple of longboats rocked gently at the quayside. This was the point where two rivers met, just downstream from the Isle du Château. Encircling the island like a moat, the rivers formed the perfect natural defence for Count Remond’s keep before fusing into one and flowing on to the sea. Taking a moment to breathe in a lungful of warm night air, Ben found himself glancing uphill, towards the merchants’ quarter.
Hauteville. Where Rose had lived with Per.
Two years, it had been two years. And now with the current unrest reaching into every corner of the Duchy, no lesser person than Duke Hoël himself had commanded that Ben put aside his quarrel with Rose’s brother. So far everything was going according to plan. Adam had done his bit, and Rose had received her summons to England. It was time for Ben to make amends with her if the second part of his plan was to stand any chance of success.
A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. As ever he must be careful. Rose knew him well and she was not stupid. But he had rehearsed his part, he would even affect surprise when she told him of Per’s death. If she caught wind of the fact that she was being manipulated, she would kill him.
The tavern door creaked. Yellow light spilled onto the quayside, and the silhouette of a man with a broken nose loomed in the doorway. Ben turned, slipped into a dark alley between two rows of wooden houses, and began running swiftly uphill towards Hauteville.
Chapter Two
The second time the door latch rattled on Witches’ Night, Rozenn’s breath froze. It had to be well past midnight, Mikaela and her friends would have made their way home from Saint Columban’s long before this. Rising from her bed, Rose groped through the dark and bumped a knee against a stool. Grabbing it, she held it aloft and edged her way through the shop.
Heart pounding, she put an ear to the front door. Breathing—surely that was someone breathing on the other side? No, no, she was imagining things. Mikaela’s talk of witches and evil spirits had set her off. It was only the wind rustling through the flowers in the garland.
When the latch clicked, she leaped backwards, gripsping the stool leg for all she was worth. She prayed the bolt would hold.
A shout in the street. Footsteps. Several people running and, since they were making no attempt to be covert, they had to be Count Remond’s men. The chilling rasp of steel being drawn.
‘Christ!’ This from the other side of her door. The door latch clacked back into place. More running.
‘That way!’
‘He went that way!’
A scuffle, a grunt, and the disturbance moved off.
Rozenn remembered to breathe.
Lowering the stool, she leaned her head on the door and waited for her heartbeat to settle. It must have been a thief, and the count’s men had likely scared him off— she hoped they had caught him. Some distance away, a dog barked. Yes, they were moving away.
Even here in Hauteville, Rozenn thought ruefully, a woman alone was not safe. Perhaps Countess Muriel was right, perhaps she should take up residence in the castle until she left. There was plenty of room in the solar with the other ladies. But, no, Rozenn did not want to sleep with them. She saw disdain and pity in their eyes every time her name was mentioned. Rose, the girl who was left outside a tavern and given to Ivona Wymark to bring up. It was true that Ivona’s care of her had been good, she had treated Rose as well as she had treated Adam, but the pity and the disdain remained. Rose did not wish the other ladies’ eyes to be the last thing she saw before she fell asleep at night.
She was padding back to bed, the wooden stool dangling from her hand, when something thudded against one of the shutters. Someone let out a grunt. Her heart thumped.
Oh, God, the thief was back! He, whoever he was, must have found out that she was a widow and had singled her out as defenceless. Well, she would show him…
Renewing her grip on the stool, Rozenn faced the shutter.
Wood creaked. Another grunt. The darkness seemed to shift, and a whisper of warm air across her skin warned her that the shutter was being forced. A sliver of silver flashed as a dagger slipped through from outside. Metal scraped on wood. The latch gave with a pop, and moonlight streamed in.
A black shape took form; it thrust an object through the opening and dropped it carefully on the floor. Other objects followed. He was trying to be quiet.
Taking a shaky breath, Rozenn raised the stool. She was trembling all over and every instinct was screaming at her to run, but the back door of the house was bolted fast, and by the time she reached it and struggled with the bolts, the intruder would be upon her. Whoever he was, she must face him here.
The draught of warm air increased. Breath frozen, she heard movement. A dark shadow shifted…
There!
No, there!
Breathing…
Behind her!
About to whirl about, strong arms caught her by the waist, her hair was nudged aside and a warm kiss was pressed to the nape of her neck.
‘Guess,’ came the soft murmur. ‘Guess who it is.’
The relief—she knew the voice after one word— weakened her knees. Dropping the stool with a crash, Rozenn gripped the arms wound about her middle. She didn’t have to see the long fingers that moved to cover hers; she didn’t have to feel the calluses the lute-strings had formed on the pads of his fingertips; she didn’t have to look into his brown eyes and see those tiny grey and green flecks to know who was holding her pressed so closely to him.
‘Ben!’ Her voice cracked, and to distract him from reading too much into that, for his hearing was subtle and he knew her so well he could read all of her moods, she thumped at his forearm. He winced, but she ignored this and let her body relax against his. ‘You fool, Benedict Silvester, you scared me half to death.’
Another warm kiss was pressed into her neck. Since it had been so long since he’d sought her out, and she really was very fond of him, Rozenn did not object.
‘Sorry, little flower, but I was in something of a hurry. No time to send out the heralds.’
Twisting round, she grasped his shoulders. ‘Some poor cuckold of a husband after you, I expect,’ she said lightly. It was too dark to read his expression, but he stepped back.
‘Ah, Rose, you cut me to the quick. Always you think the worst of me.’
‘Isn’t there reason?’
Silence. Then, gently, ‘Rose, I won’t stay if I’m not welcome.’
Impulsively, guiltily, she found his hand in the dark and lifted it to her cheek. ‘No, Ben, I am sorry, you are welcome. It has been too long.’ She softened her tone. ‘My house is yours. Treat it as your home.’
‘I don’t have a home, chérie,’ Ben said, adopting what she termed his flirtatious voice. He carried her hand to his heart. ‘But if I did, you would be its flickering flame, toasting a man’s toes on a winter’s night.’
Rozenn shook her head, smiling at him through the dark. ‘You’re a rogue, Benedict Silvester, to try to flatter me. Haven’t you learnt I’m proof against your wiles?’
‘I live in hope, I live in hope. Rose?’
‘Mmm?’
‘May I stay here while I’m in Quimperlé?’
‘Won’t you be bedding down at the castle?’
‘I’d rather not; there’s never much rest to be had for a minstrel in the hall of a castle.’
Forgetting he could not see her in the dark, Rozenn nodded. She knew how it was—he would be constantly in demand at the castle, as a musician, a singer, a drinking companion and… No, she would not think about that. It warmed her to think that Ben could relax in her house, but then, they had been friends for ever.
‘Of course. You don’t need to ask.’ The words had slipped out before she had time to question the wisdom of letting Ben—a man with the most appalling reputation— stay in her house now that her husband had died. Moving past him, Rozenn led the way into the private family room. Fumbling for a taper, she lit a candle and mocked him. ‘Do enter, kind sir.’
‘My thanks, little flower.’
Ben fetched the things he had tossed through the shutter and, as the light strengthened, Rozenn recognised his lute bag among them. She ought to, having stitched it herself years ago. It was the first and the last thing she had ever made in leather, and by the time she had finished it, she had gone through two thimbles and her fingers were pricked to the bone. Never again, she had sworn, vowing to stick to fabric thereafter.
Ben tossed his cloak on to a stool and frowned at her empty bed. In the candlelight she could see that his hair was cut in the fashion favoured by the Normans—shaved short at the back. It was longer at the front though, so long that his dark fringe flopped into his eyes. With an impatient gesture, he shoved it back.
He has been running, Rozenn reminded herself, deliberately turning her attention to his clothes to stop herself staring at his face, like just another of his lovestruck women. But even a furtive glance had told her that Benedict Silvester remained more handsome than a man ought to be. It wasn’t fair, but Mikaela was right, those dark looks, especially his eyes and the way they appeared to soften when they regarded one, were almost irresistible. His face was leaner than it had been; it was no longer the face of a boy, but that of a man coming into his prime. He needed a shave and this gave him a faintly disreputable air that hinted of danger, but typically, since it was Ben, this was not unattractive. His looks were as much his stock in trade as was his talent with a lute.
Shaking her head, Rozenn forced her attention to his clothes, assessing them with the eyes of a woman used to judging the quality at a glance. Under that unremarkable cloak that was surely too dowdy for Ben and far too hot for a night like tonight, they were showy. This was more like it, this was the Ben she knew. Ben’s clothes had always been fit for a prince—they were the clothes of a man who earned his bread by entertaining noblemen. And, a little voice added waspishly, by pleasing noblewomen too. The candlelight shone on a tunic that was a rich kingfisher blue. It had the sheen and drape of silk. Both the tunic and the belt at Ben’s waist flattered his form—wide shoulders, slim waist. A silver buckle glinted. Ben’s chausses were of fine grey linen, and the leg bindings matched the blue of his tunic. His boots…
‘Rose…’ he was looking around, apparently puzzled ‘…where’s Per?’
Rozenn took a deep breath and looked into Ben’s eyes and wished the night was not so hot and airless; it was very hard to breathe.
‘Oh, Ben, there is so much to tell you…’
Thus it was that Ben found himself sitting at Rozenn’s board, tasting rich red wine and chicken pie while he pretended her news was new to him.
Ben listened while Rozenn talked about Per’s death, about how swiftly the sickness had taken him, about how she had tried to nurse him, all to no avail. He watched the sadness enter her eyes, shoved aside his empty plate, and reached for her hand.
‘You’d come to care for him very much, hadn’t you?’
Rose’s hair was unravelling from its braid, a glossy, dark mass of curls. She bent her head and wound it loosely at the nape of her neck. Her voice, when she spoke, was muffled. ‘Naturally, I cared for him. He was my husband.’
‘Rozenn…’ gently Ben turned her face back to his, and reclaimed her hand ‘…there’s more, isn’t there?’
She sighed. ‘Per had debts.’
Knowing how punctilious Rose was and how shamed she must have felt, Ben made his voice light. ‘Don’t we all?’
‘Ben, I’m not talking about the odd penny here and there, but substantial amounts. After the funeral, half the town came knocking on the door, demanding payment.’ She gave him a rueful smile and Ben caught his first glimpse of her dimples. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? I chose Per because I wanted—no, needed—security, and he turns out to owe money to the world and his wife. I tell you, if I ever catch so much as a glimpse of a tally stick again, I’ll jump on the next horse I can find and gallop out of the Duchy.’
Ben smiled. ‘They have tally sticks in Normandy too, chérie.’ He rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand. Her fingers were clinging to his as though she’d never let go. Her breasts were something of a distraction, rising and falling as they were, under that flimsy nightgown. Rose thinks of me as a brother, he reminded himself, and kept his eyes fixed firmly on her face. It struck him that her dimples were surprisingly kissable and her mouth too looked inviting…
No. No. What was he thinking? Abruptly he released her hand and reached for his wine-cup. This was Rose, who openly admitted she wanted stability, the security he could never give her. Thank God, she seemed unaware of the temporarily lustful direction his thoughts had taken.
He indicated the money pouch at his belt. ‘I’ve a few deniers with me, if that will help, ma belle. Don’t mention it to Countess Muriel, but I was in Rennes recently with Duke Hoël. He paid handsomely to hear Turold’s new “Song of Roland”.’
When she nodded, Ben knew he did not have to expand. Rose might not know of his secret work for the Duke, but it was common knowledge that while Duke Hoël was titular Duke of Brittany, many of the barons, Count Remond of Quimperlé included, merely paid lip- service to his authority. The nobles made, and broke, other alliances every day. Deals were struck with Bretons, with Normans, with anyone—nothing mattered but that the arrangement gave a temporary advantage. Frankish noblemen had about as much honour as court whores.
Rozenn laid her fingers on his arm. It was the lightest of touches, the friendliest of touches, but it had muscles clenching in Ben’s belly, sensual muscles that had no business clenching when she touched him. He frowned.
‘That’s sweet, Ben, but not necessary. Fortunately Mark Quémeneur offered a reasonable price for most of Per’s stock. I hope to sell the rest on market day.’
Sweet. Now there was a novelty. ‘So you can settle Per’s debts?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am glad of that. Rose?’
‘Mmm?’ She smothered a yawn.
‘If you ever did need me—for anything—you only have to ask. I am—’ he raised her hand to his lips ‘—yours to command.’
Her brown eyes danced, her dimples winked at him. ‘I know that, but you’re not often around to ask, are you?’
Ben’s heart contracted as guilt took him. Was he wrong to think of using Rose as cover to get him to England? Rozenn was no more suited to the wandering life than his mother had been—few women were. Rozenn craved security, Rozenn craved position. Ben understood, of course, but privately he wondered if she would for ever be making up for being a foundling. If it were not for the fact that the Duke vitally needed to establish a line of contact with his men in England, he would abandon the entire plan….
‘Rose, I must ask, have you heard from Adam since he left? When I heard of the great battle at Hastings, I prayed that he would survive.’
‘He did. Word came via a messenger bringing news to Count Remond. Adam distinguished himself at Hastings and Duke William—that is, the new King of England— has rewarded him with lands and a wife.’
‘A wife?’
‘Aye, her name is Cecily of Fulford,’ Rozenn said, with a little yawn. ‘And very soon I am going to visit them.’
‘You are?’ Ben said, affecting disbelief. ‘My Rozenn leave Quimperlé—impossible!’ She shot him a strange look and, deciding it was probably best not to overdo the disbelief, Ben shook his head and continued. ‘But Adam—remarried—I can scarcely believe it. Poor woman, he will never love her as he loved Gwenn.’
‘How could he? But Adam is kind. He will be a considerate husband, I’m sure, and that will be enough.’
‘Will it? Was your marriage with Per like that? Was Per a considerate husband?’
Anger flared in her eyes. ‘Ben, you go too far, even for an old friend.’ Then her shoulders slumped and just as swiftly, the anger was gone. ‘Per was not considerate, as you now know. How could he have just borrowed and borrowed?’ Sighing, Rozenn leaned on her hand and stared into the fire.
There was more, he knew. Ben waited, but Rozenn continued to gaze blindly into the flames. There was a time when she would have trusted him with all of her secrets. His heart ached. He needed to know more about her plans to visit Adam, he needed to know her reaction to Sir Richard’s ‘offer’, but she was tired and melancholy, so he held his tongue. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
‘Sorry, little one.’ Leaning forward, he touched her cheek. ‘Don’t be sad. You drive those dimples away, and they are very beautiful.’
‘Beautiful dimples?’ She roused herself and covered his hand with hers. ‘You fool.’
‘It’s true, they are beautiful. I dream of those dimples; I sing songs about them; knights have jousted over them…’
‘Idiot. Oh, Ben, it is good to see you. I… I’ve missed you.’
‘And I you.’
She smothered a yawn.
Ben pushed himself to his feet. ‘Has Countess Muriel asked for you on the morrow?’
‘Aye, at first light.’
‘I’m keeping you up. We can exchange more news tomorrow.’ He made his voice as brisk as he might, to hide an inexplicable wave of longing that Rozenn might lie in his arms till dawn. ‘Shall I sleep in the shop?’
‘What? Oh, no. Make your bed over there, if you like, on the other side of the fire.’
Once the candle had been snuffed out and there was only the flicker of the fire to see by, she fell asleep quickly. She lay on her side on the bed, facing him, cheek pillowed on her hand, lips slightly parted. She was, Ben hoped, relieved to have him there. Happy, as he was to see her. He had always been content in Rozenn’s presence, even when they had been children. And every time he and his father had worn out their welcome at the castle, every time they had decided to move on, it had been a wrench to leave her behind. So it would be again, no doubt—she was a good friend.
Ben lay on the pallet she had found him, wrapped in his cloak, and watched the dying flames burn till they were little more than a soft glow. Then at last, his eyelids drooped, and he too found sleep.
Rozenn woke when the first fingers of light were edging round the shutter. She was conscious that her mood was lighter than it had been in months, if not years. Hazy with sleep, she rolled on to her back. She dare not linger long because her neighbour’s cockerel was crowing and Countess Muriel had commanded her presence in the solar at first light.
The Countess and her ladies were working on a wall- hanging intended for the Great Hall, above the dais. Rozenn had been commissioned to design it and, though the designing was done and the Countess and her ladies were perfectly capable of embroidering it without her, the Countess liked her to be present when they sewed.
This was another reason why Rozenn had not made public her intention to journey to England to find Adam and Sir Richard. If she feared upsetting Mikaela and Adam’s mother, she was twice as worried about Countess Muriel. As a rule the Countess was even-tempered, but when crossed she could be spiteful and vindictive. And since the wall-hanging was her current obsession… Oh, Lord.
Eyes firmly shut, Rozenn stole a few more moments in bed, her thoughts drifting. When complete, her tapestry— half-a-dozen yards long and as many deep—would dwarf the other castle wall-hangings. At her first sight of the unworked linen unrolled on the trestle in the solar, the Countess had been delighted.
‘Rozenn Kerber…’ The Countess had smiled, lightly fingering the charcoal figures Rozenn had sketched on to the fabric. ‘You are a wonder. Our hall will be the envy of Brittany. This figure riding out to hunt before all his men, is it Count Remond?’
‘Yes, Comptesse.’
‘And this, the lady in the orchard by the castle—is this me?’
‘Yes, Comptesse.’
‘You have done well, Rozenn. This will indeed enhance my husband’s prestige.’
And that, more than decoration, was the purpose of the wall-hanging. Luckily Rozenn had been quick to realise this. That was why she had designed the hanging with her two powerful patrons in pride of place. Count Remond was ambitious, his Countess was ambitious and the wall- hanging was a visual representation of their aspirations. Rozenn understood about ambition; she had ambitions of her own—she was going to marry a knight. A man of honour, Sir Richard would never have given her the gold cross if his liking for her was not strong.
Sighing, Rose stretched and opened her eyes. Her heart gave a crazy lurch.
Ben.