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An Honourable Rogue
Carol Townend
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesCharmed and seduced! Benedict Silvester is a rogue and a flirt! His skill as a musician means he is always travelling…and he charms women wherever he goes. Yet he is on a special mission: to accompany Rozenn Kerber to England. Rose is frustrated by Ben’s frivolous behaviour, and annoyed that his wicked smile continually occupies her thoughts, for he can never offer the stability she craves.But on their travels Rose begins to suspect that he may have a serious side, that Ben is more than he appears…Wessex Weddings Normans and Saxons, conflict and desire!


‘Rozenn, I would swim to England for your kiss.’
Ben could not have said that, and in so serious a tone. He had to be teasing her. And then thought fled as he whirled her around so she had her back to the audience on the bridge. He lowered his lips to hers.
His kiss began light as thistledown, so light that she could barely feel it. Her body went quite still, as if it was curious, as if it wanted to know what kissing Benedict Silvester would be like.
We shouldn’t be doing this, her mind protested, while her body hung limp in his arms and experienced what it was like to kiss him. Achingly gentle. Warm lips, despite the swim, lips that moved softly over hers and made her want to melt into him. He tasted of heaven, he tasted of everything she had ever dreamed of, he tasted of…Ben.
Pulling back with a shaky laugh, she smoothed his hair from his face. Hands firmly gripping her waist, Ben smiled down at her, eyes warm.
I would swim to England for your kiss.
What a tease.
‘You’re all wet,’ she said, clearing her throat. She gave him a little shove. ‘Go, go! You have a wager to win.’
Carol Townend has been making up stories since she was a child. Whenever she comes across a tumbledown building, be it castle or cottage, she can’t help conjuring up the lives of the people who once lived there. Her Yorkshire forebears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps their influence lingers…
Carol’s love of ancient and medieval history took her to London University, where she read History, and her first novel (published by Mills & Boon) won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Award. Currently she lives near Kew Gardens, with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at www.caroltownend.co.uk

Author Note
In 1066 William, Duke of Normandy, seized the English crown. Many Franks came with him, including knights from Brittany and elsewhere in France. The hero of my last novel was one of these, and I wondered how it might have been for the family and friends he left behind.
This novel opens in Brittany in the summer of 1067. Politically, the Breton Duchy is in chaos. Rival counts are jostling for supremacy and allegiances change like lightning. What if William also attacks neighbouring Brittany? In AN HONOURABLE ROGUE two young Bretons are drawn into this political maelstrom. A lute- player, Benedict Silvester, is one. He carries out secret missions for the Duke of Brittany—which means a journey to turbulent England. Rozenn Kerber, Ben’s childhood friend, is another. Knowing that Rose is ambitious, Ben arranges for her to receive a ‘proposal of marriage’ from a knight in England, and together they set off…
Minstrels would both sing and recite the ancient epics, stories in which heroes and heroines are tested to their limits. On his travels Ben recites The Romance ofTristan. He also sings a version of The Song of Roland, originally made famous by a renowned minstrel known as the dwarf Turold. Turold can be seen on the Bayeux Tapestry.
I hope you enjoy reading about Ben and Rose as they embark on their journey, a journey which will put them to the test…

AN HONOURABLE ROGUE
Carol Townend

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Mick, with thanks
for the Bosham connection,
and Tim for help with the horses
Chapter One
Quimperlé, Brittany
Even though it was Witches’ Night, the first time the door latch rattled Rozenn was not alarmed. The sun was yet to set, and she was expecting her young friend, Mikaela.
In any case, Hauteville, the quarter of Quimperlé in which Rozenn lived, was scarcely the town slum. At the top of Quimperlé, built on the edge of a rocky outcrop overlooking the main town and castle, Hauteville remained a reasonably safe place in which to live—even the lawlessness that followed the recent killing of Duke Conan had not reached Hauteville. However, this was 1067 and the times were uncertain, so just in case it wasn’t Mikaela, Rozenn shoved the silver coins she had been counting back into their pouch and draped some sewing over them. Her little hoard—except that now it was not so little—was growing.
Perhaps today was the day to tell Mikaela she planned to leave Brittany, possibly for ever….
As she expected, it was Mikaela outside; she was busily fastening a garland to the door in the fading evening light. Overhead, screeching swifts traced arcs in the sky; house martins darted in and out of their nests under the eaves.
‘You’ve come straight from the tavern,’ Rozenn observed.
‘Mmm.’ Mikaela’s fingers were busy with the garland, tweaking, adjusting. ‘How did you work that out?’
‘No veil.’
Mikaela and her father ran the local tavern, the White Bird, and since a veil was not practical for cooking and cleaning, Mikaela often dispensed with it and forgot to put it back on when she went out about town.
Rozenn glanced at the garland, a Midsummer’s Eve garland. Yellow St John’s wort gleamed against glossy bay leaves; corn marigolds winked out from between trailing strands of ivy; yarrow and elder flowers nodded in the warm breeze that was drifting up the narrow street from the river and port below….
‘Pretty.’ Rozenn smiled. Mikaela was using the same rusty nail she had hung her garland on the previous year, and the year before that. Mikaela was a creature of habit. And very superstitious.
Mikaela shoved her plait over her shoulder and threw her a look. ‘Pretty’s not the point, Rose. This is meant to protect you.’
‘Against witches.’ Rozenn managed not to laugh.
‘Of course. Don’t roll those brown eyes at me. This—’ Mikaela flicked at the St John’s Wort, dusting her fingertips with the heavy pollen ‘—will see you safe till the feast of St John the Baptist on the morrow and this—’ she indicated a sprig of bay ‘—wards off witches and evil spirits—’
‘Oh, Mikaela…’ Rozenn shook her head with a smile ‘…you’re wasting your time. I don’t believe in the old tales.’
Mikaela gave the garland on Rozenn’s door a final tweak and stepped back to admire her handiwork. ‘Maybe that’s your problem,’ she murmured, wiping pollen on to her skirts.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Mikaela shrugged. ‘Too serious, that’s your trouble. You could come down to Saint Columban’s tonight, find out who your true love is.’
Rozenn’s lips tightened. ‘Midsummer madness. No.’
‘Please, Rozenn. Nicole and Anna are coming. It would do you good to join in. See it as a bit of fun. Your time of mourning is over, there’s no need to feel guilty.’
‘I don’t feel guilty,’ Rozenn said. ‘I simply think it is folly, a waste of time and sleep. Walking seven times round a church at midnight, for heaven’s sake. As if that will tell you your true love. It’s utter lunacy.’
‘You don’t have to believe in it, it’s fun.’ Mikaela took her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Per wouldn’t mind. He’d want you to be happy, to find someone else. And if the spell does work—’ she grinned ‘—you’ll learn who your true love is.’
‘But I already know that,’ Rozenn said, before she could stop herself.
Mikaela’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’
Rozenn could have bitten out her tongue; she had planned to be subtle when she told Mikaela her plans, not blurt them out like a fool. Abruptly turning her shoulder, she fingered the gold cross she wore on a chain round her neck and gazed down the cobbled street as it ran down to the quays and the castle in Quimperlé proper. Overhead, the house martins threaded back and forth across a pink- streaked sky.
‘Nothing.’ Rose wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and sighed. Young Anton was toiling up the hill, pulling a hand cart laden with bales of cloth, destined doubtless for Mark Quémeneur, the town’s main tailor now her husband was dead. ‘That boy will have to hurry if he wants to get to Mark’s workshop before he locks up for the evening.’
‘Rozenn Kerber, don’t you dare change the subject!’
Rozenn sighed. ‘It was nothing, Mikaela, I spoke out of turn. It was so hot in Countess Muriel’s solar today, my brain must have addled.’
As Anton and the cart rumbled by, Mikaela tugged at her hand, trying to make her meet her eyes. ‘No escape, Rose. You said something extremely interesting. You said you already know who your true love is, and it didn’t sound to me as though you were referring to Per.’ Mikaela’s voice was light and teasing, but she was frowning. ‘I know you were fond of him, but you were hardly starry-eyed when you married. You didn’t mean Per, did you? Is it someone I know?’
‘Leave it, Mikaela, I spoke without thought.’
‘Tell me, Rose,’ Mikaela said, softly wheedling. ‘Tell me who you love.’
‘No.’ Rozenn tossed her head and laughed at her friend’s persistence. ‘In truth, I was going to tell you some time soon, but since this has you in such a fever, you have to guess. I’ll share my supper with you if you guess his name.’
‘Not fair, since you were going to tell me anyway.’
‘It’s more fun teasing you! And did my ears deceive me, or didn’t you just say I needed to have more fun?’
Mikaela narrowed her eyes. ‘That, Rose, is a low blow.’
‘Go on, guess! I went to the castle bakehouse and Stefan gave me a chicken pie that would feed a giant. There’s far too much just for me.’ She moved to the threshold, and pulled her garlanded door fully open. ‘Come in, please. Your father will know where you are.’
The house that Rozenn had shared with her husband was, like most of the merchants’ houses in Hauteville, a two-roomed dwelling, wattle and daub on a wood frame. The room at the front, facing the street, had wide shutters that Per used to fling open to display the shop and its wares. The shutters were pulled to now, and the shop was stuffy and full of deepening shadows. A further door led through to the room behind the shop, the living room where Rozenn and Per had cooked and eaten and slept. Light glowed there and the girls moved towards it, long skirts rustling. The shutter on the far wall was open, and the back of a neighbour’s house was dark against a purpling sky.
As they passed through the shop, Mikaela’s gaze fell on the shelves, half of which were empty. Her frown deepened. ‘Your stock, Rozenn? Where’s all the cloth?’
‘Sold most of it.’
‘To Mark Quémeneur?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will it pay Per’s debts?’ Mikaela asked, knowing how upset her friend had been to discover that her husband owed several of the townsfolk money.
‘I pray so.’
Mikaela indicated the remaining stock. ‘And what happens to this lot?’
Rozenn smiled. ‘I plan to sell it on market day. Mark offered me a reasonable price, but you know what a huckster he is. These fabrics should sell quite easily, and I think I can make more money myself.’
‘You’ll still take in sewing, though?’
Rozenn murmured something noncommittal and turned away, not quite ready to reveal her plans to leave the Duchy. ‘Mark was pleased to have the damasks and the Byzantine silks. Oh, and before I forget, I saved you a length of that blue velvet you were so taken with.’
‘Did you?’ Mikaela’s eyes lit up. ‘My thanks but, Rose, I do have a little money. I can pay you.’
‘Don’t be silly. Per may have left debts, but I am not so encumbered that I can’t give you a gift.’
‘You are generous. But what will you do without your shop? You will keep on with your sewing? Rose, you must. You’re so clever with a needle, you’ll never want for work.’
Leading the way into the living room, Rose smiled and bent to add a log on to the fire in the central hearth. Taking a taper, she lit a couple of candles and waved Mikaela to a stool. ‘Aye, there’s always needlework.’ She picked up the sewing and her heavy money pouch and dropped them on the bed by the wall. It was such a relief to know that soon she would be able to pay off Per’s debts.
At the table, Mikaela leaned her chin on one hand and airily waved the other while Rozenn hunted out wooden cups and plates. ‘Enough of work,’ Mikaela said. ‘Let’s get to the main business of the evening. I have to guess who Rozenn loves? Who can it be?’ She tapped her lips with her forefinger. ‘You say I know him?’
‘Ye…es, but you won’t have seen him for a while.’
‘Hmm.’ Abruptly Mikaela straightened. ‘Oh, this is like stealing sweetmeats from a baby! I know, I know exactly who it is!’
Rozenn took a wine-skin down from its hook, drew the stopper and reached for Mikaela’s cup. ‘You do?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I do! It’s Ben, Benedict Silvester!’
The wine-skin jerked in Rozenn’s hand. Rozenn stared blankly at a dark pool of wine that had somehow splashed on to the table. ‘B-Ben?’
‘Yes! The lute-player.’
Rozenn snorted and shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t love Benedict Silvester if he were the last man on earth.’
Mikaela raised a brow. ‘You wouldn’t? I always thought you adored each other. You played together as children whenever he was around—inseparable, you were.’
‘Children are extremely uncritical.’
‘But you do like him, Rose, I know you do!’
‘Yes, yes, of course I like him,’ Rozenn said, a touch impatiently. ‘How could I not? He’s kind and witty and amusing.’
Mikaela’s expression grew dreamy. ‘Handsome, Rozenn. Don’t forget that. Those eyes—dark as sin—’
‘He’s a rootless charmer—’
‘Those long eyelashes…hair like ebony. And he plays the lute like an angel.’
‘That last is true.’
Mikaela’s bosom heaved. ‘And as for his body…’
Rozenn scowled. ‘What would you know about Ben’s body?’
Mikaela’s lips twitched. ‘I thought that would sting. I know I’m right, it is Ben! Rozenn loves Ben Silvester…’
‘I do not!’ Rozenn thumped Mikaela’s cup down on the table and turned to the hearth where Stefan’s pie was warming in a dish. Honesty compelled her to add, ‘At least, not in the way you mean. I love him as a brother, in the same way that I love Adam.’
Mikaela tipped her head to one side. ‘I thought at one time you would marry Ben, you and he seemed so well suited, but you married Per and—’
‘Ben and I? Well suited? You link me with a feckless lute-player who has seduced half the women in Brittany! You flatter me…’
Mikaela did not respond. Her finger tapped on her mouth.
‘Besides,’ Rozenn said, frowning, ‘I haven’t seen Ben in two years. Not since that quarrel that flared up between him and Adam.’
‘Yes, that was odd. Until then they had been very close. I wonder what it was about?’
‘I have no idea, Adam would never say.’
‘So there has to be someone else who hasn’t been in Quimperlé for some time,’ Mikaela said thoughtfully. ‘Someone else whom you love?’
‘Yes. And it really is not Benedict Silvester. Think again.’
Mikaela sipped at her wine and eyed Rozenn over the rim of her cup. ‘This is good. Did you buy it from Father?’
‘Countess Muriel gave it to me. Come on, Mikaela, guess again.’
Setting her cup down, Mikaela shook her head. ‘Lord knows, if it’s not Ben. Mark?’
‘Mark Quémeneur? No, he’s more of a business associate.’
‘One of Adam’s cronies then? Didn’t you have word from him a week back?’
‘Yes and yes. Your aim is improving!’
‘So, this paragon is a knight? Aye, you would have it in mind to marry a knight…’
Setting the pie on the table, Rozenn pulled up a stool opposite Mikaela.
‘Not that knight who gave you that gold cross, the one with a lute like Ben’s? Not Sir Richard of Asculf?’
With a flourish, Rozenn cut a large slice from Stefan’s pie. ‘The very same, well done! You, dear friend, have won yourself some of the best chicken pie in Quimperlé.’
Later that night, Rozenn lay in the bed by the wall in the living room, unable to sleep. Sticky and hot, she thrust back the bedcovers and stared through the blackness at the rafters. Next door, baby Manu was crying. Someone ran past the house, their boots ringing loud on the cobbles. She heard a soft murmuring, the baby stopped crying, and then silence settled over the street. She tugged at the chain round her neck and pulled the cross out of her nightshirt. A gold cross. Gold. Sir Richard had given her a gold one because he held her in high regard.
The heat was stifling. It was an August heat rather than a June heat, and it seemed to rise up like a fog from the port and linger in Hauteville’s narrow alleys. More wind, they needed more wind to carry off the heat. From the bottom of the hill, from Basseville, other sounds drifted in the air: a snatch of a drunken soldier’s ditty, a howl of laughter. Men from Count Remond’s garrison most likely, returning to the barracks after a session in one of the port taverns.
After Mikaela had left, Rozenn had smothered the fire down as much as she dared without putting it out completely. It glowed softly in the hearth, the only light in the room. It gave out too much heat, heat that was not needed tonight, but Rozenn liked warm water to wash in in the morning and it took too long to start a fire from scratch.
Mikaela. Rozenn smiled into the gloom, and as she shifted, the straw in the mattress rustled. Her friend had long been fascinated by the thought that Rozenn’s gold cross had been a gift from Sir Richard and not from her husband. It had been easy to divert her, and then the conversation had moved on, and suddenly the evening had passed and Rozenn still hadn’t told Mikaela of her plans to take her ‘mother’ Ivona to England to find Adam and Sir Richard. Since Rose had been a foundling, and had been put into Ivona’s care nineteen years ago, Ivona was not Rose’s blood-mother any more than Adam was her real brother. But Rose loved them both as family. She was lucky to have them—not all foundlings were treated half so well.
What had been the exact wording of the startling message that Adam had sent her?
While Rose racked her brain to recall the precise words, she drew an image of Adam’s messenger in her mind as, travel-stained and weary, he had caught up with her by the town well…
‘Mistress Rozenn Kerber?’
‘Yes?’
‘Your brother, Sir Adam Wymark,’ the messenger had said, ‘sends loving greetings. He has asked me to inform you that he has important news for you and your mother, Ivona—’
‘What news—he is unhurt?’ she had asked, pleased at this evidence that Adam still considered her his sister.
‘He is perfectly well, mistress. He requests that you and your mother prepare to journey to England later in the year.’
Rozenn had rubbed her forehead. ‘Ivona and I are to leave Brittany! But…but…’
Her mind had whirled, and two thoughts emerged from the maelstrom. The first was that her adoptive mother would be thrown into utter confusion by Adam’s request, and the second that she herself was interested, very interested, in this idea. ‘Adam must have said more…?’
‘Indeed, mistress, and this is the meat of it: your brother has received an offer for your hand in marriage.’
‘An offer, for me?’
‘Yes, mistress. His friend Sir Richard of Asculf has asked if you would marry him.’
Rozenn had blinked, absently reaching for the cross at her neck. ‘Sir Richard wants to marry me?’
The messenger had nodded. ‘Your brother would like you to consider this offer most carefully. But in any case, whatever your decision regarding Sir Richard, he would be pleased to welcome you to his new holding. Sir Adam has some business to put in hand before he can send you an escort, but by early autumn he should be in a position to do so.’
‘So soon? We are to join Adam this autumn?’ Adam must have taken leave of his senses! Ivona would never agree to leave the castle that had been her home for so many years, never. And as for Sir Richard wanting to marry her—a knight, a knight… It was beyond anything she had dreamed of.
The messenger had simply nodded. ‘Yes, mistress.’
Yes, mistress. As if it were a little thing, an everyday thing, for Adam to summon Rozenn and his mother across the sea to England and for her to receive an offer of marriage from a Norman knight.
‘B-but I’ve never even left Quimperlé…’
The messenger had given her a strange look and he had sighed. He was holding himself in such a way that told Rose his back was aching. His throat had to be parched, he must be longing to put his feet up in a tavern. ‘I’m telling you all I know, mistress,’ he had said. ‘Make preparations, your brother will send you an escort… Sir Adam also stressed that if anything were to happen to him, you must put your trust in Sir Richard, who has your best interests at heart.’
Rose could scarcely believe it, but it must be true. Sir Richard has your best interests at heart. Would Sir Richard have given a gold cross to a woman who meant nothing to him?
‘H-how did Adam find out that I have been widowed?’
‘I do not know.’
Shortly after that, having attempted with a fair degree of patience to respond to a barrage of questions, the man had bowed and had made his escape, leaving Rozenn staring after him, her thoughts in turmoil. Adam had done well in Duke William’s service, apparently. For rallying fleeing troops at Hastings, England’s new king had given Adam lands and a new wife—one Lady Cecily of Fulford.
As Rose had watched Adam’s messenger limp towards the nearest tavern, an idea—no, it was more of a dream— had flashed into her mind.
Sir Richard has your best interests at heart…at heart. She had fingered the cross Sir Richard had, rather shockingly, given her even while she had been married to Per. Sir Richard had offered for her!
Once she would have thought such a thing impossible. But was it so incredible that Adam should wish to foster an alliance between his family and his good friend Sir Richard? After all, Adam was only the son of a horse- master, yet he had risen through the ranks and become a knight. And if that had happened, why should Rose not become a lady?
So now, on Witches’ Night, Rozenn smiled into the dark, twirling the gold cross while she wildly embroidered her dream. Not for her the life of a cloth merchant’s widow in Quimperlé where everyone thought of her as a foundling. She wouldn’t have to depend on Countess Muriel for work, she would marry a knight! Lady Rozenn of Asculf…
England beckoned. Tomorrow she really must reveal her plans to Mikaela. And if Adam’s mother refused to leave, she would simply have to travel on her own….
First, Rozenn would pay off Per’s debts, and then she would go and search out the place Adam’s messenger had mentioned—Fulford, near Winchester. She wasn’t about to wait for Adam’s escort, life was too short. Why wait till the autumn? She would go as soon as possible—this month, maybe even this week! Somehow she would find a way.
King William had granted Adam lands in England!
How pleased Adam must be, to have lands of his own at last. But if only Adam had got a scribe to write a proper letter. Of course, Rozenn couldn’t read herself, but England was a long way to go on the word of one exhausted messenger.
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.
Fast asleep on his stomach on the pallet on the other side of the room with his face turned to the wall. His dark hair was tousled and he must have pulled off his tunic and chainse—his shirt—in the heat of the night, for his torso was bare. He was not as large as her adopted brother Adam or her husband Per, but he was beautifully formed, with wide muscled shoulders and a narrow waist…
One arm was trailing over the edge of the pallet on to the floor. She looked at his hand, the hand she knew so well, with its slender musician’s fingers relaxed and still. She wanted to touch him. How silly. She must have missed him more than she had realised.
Rozenn’s gaze wandered down Ben’s length to the cloak twisted at his waist, to the curve of buttocks concealed beneath it and finally to the naked foot sticking out at the bottom. Ben was no warrior, no Sir Richard of Asculf, and yet his body was strong, well muscled and athletic, like the tumblers and dancers that had visited Castle Hellon last month. But then Ben, she remembered, could tumble and dance along with the best of them.
She swallowed, and a disturbing sensation of longing made itself felt in her belly. Shaking her head, Rozenn flung back her sheet. No, not longing. It was not longing that she felt when she looked at Benedict Silvester. She, Rozenn Kerber, whose first marriage had been contracted on the grounds of practicality, and whose second would, like Countess Muriel’s, be one of ambition, did not feel longing for men. It was only pleasure that she was feeling, the simple pleasure of seeing a dear friend again.
The cockerel had gone quiet, but the wood pigeons were cooing on her roof and above the town the martins were screeching….
Rozenn scrambled up. Quickly, she breathed life into the fire and put some of yesterday’s water on to heat for washing. Then, dragging her gown over her head—a new one she had made a month ago out of the best blue linen in the shop—she slipped out for fresh water from the well in the square. At the tavern she bought a loaf of warm bread from Mikaela. She was careful to make no mention of Ben’s reappearance because she was already late and there was no time for lengthy explanations. Half a loaf already lay in her bread crock, but Ben would appreciate a fresh one.
Back at the house, she set the loaf on a platter with a small round of goat’s cheese and a couple of apples. Digging Per’s house key out of the strongbox, she placed it on the table next to the food, where Ben would be bound to find it.
Then, picking up her workbag, she slipped out. The martins were swooping and diving for flies. Young Anton was ahead of her, trotting down the hill in front of his cart. She had better hurry, if she was not to incur Countess Muriel’s wrath.
* * *
When Rozenn entered the solar, Countess Muriel was pacing up and down in front of the fire that she insisted should burn day and night, winter and summer. The wall- hanging was still rolled in its protective covering to one side of the trestle, and several ladies were taking their ease on the window seat, murmuring softly to one another.
Countess Muriel strode up, full skirts swishing through the rushes. ‘Rozenn, there you are!’
A tall, slender woman with narrow shoulders and a slight build, the countess nevertheless dwarfed most men. Her forthright manner could be intimidating, but Rozenn refused to be intimidated. She tipped back her head and met the Countess’s gaze directly. ‘Good morning, Comptesse.’ Wondering why they could not have made a start without her, Rozenn put her workbag on the trestle and set about unrolling the tapestry. It occurred to her that though the Countess might command her person, she could not command her mind. Her heart lifted. Today, her happiness made her impervious to Countess Muriel’s impatience. It must be because she would be leaving soon.
Countess Muriel made an irritable gesture. ‘No, wait.’
Rozenn’s hands stilled on the cloth. She ought to tell the Countess of her plans to leave Quimperlé as soon as possible. It was most odd, but this prospect did not unnerve her as much as it had last week. Giving only half an ear to what was being said, Rose wondered when the best moment would be. Perhaps she ought to wait until after market day, when she was absolutely sure she had enough money to settle Per’s debts…
‘Rozenn!’ The Countess drew her dark brows together. ‘Are you attending?’
‘Y-yes, of course. My pardon, Comptesse.’
‘So? You know where to find him?’
‘Find who, Comptesse?’
Countess Muriel tutted. ‘Really, Rozenn! I was talking about the lute-player, Benedict Silvester. My husband tells me he was seen last eve and I recollect you know him. Do you know where he might be?’
Rozenn’s cheeks warmed. The thought of the Countess and her ladies learning that Benedict Silvester was staying at her house was disconcerting to say the least. Ben’s reputation was such that they would never believe her relationship with him was innocent. Since she would soon be leaving Quimperlé, she should not really care what anyone here thought, but…
‘B-Benedict?’
‘Wake up, girl, for heavens’ sake! You know perfectly well who I mean. The man’s the best lute-player in the Duchy. I recollect he used to be a friend of your brother, so you should know his usual haunts. Do you know where he is? This morning I want him to entertain us while we sew.’
‘I…I know where he might be, Comptesse.’
‘Good, you may fetch him. Tell him he may have his usual fee, unless he’d rather settle for food and lodging.’ Another imperious wave sent Rozenn hurrying to the door.
‘Very well, Comptesse, I’ll see if I can find him.’
The front door of her house in Hauteville was shut up when she got back, which probably meant that Ben had already left. Unlocking the door with the key she kept on the chain at her waist, Rose pushed it open and went in, stomach tightening. Ben had not said how long he was planning on staying in Quimperlé. But surely he would not come back for just one night? Not when they had so much more to talk about… No, no—vaguely she recalled him saying they would talk again later.
‘Ben? Ben?’
A large bluebottle was blundering about the shop, but other than that the house was silent. In the living room, the bread on the table had been cut, one of the apples had gone, and the goat’s cheese had been covered with a cloth. Flipping back the cloth, she smiled. He’d left her half. And Per’s key was no longer there.
One of Ben’s packs sat neatly on the pallet; there was no sign of his lute.
She huffed out a breath. Where might he have gone? He might be visiting old friends in the White Bird, but he could just as easily be in one of the dockside taverns. Or he might be singing in the market square, or playing dice in Count Remond’s guardhouse; he might even be watching the hawks in the mews—he was fascinated by their speed and strength and ferocity. Resolving to walk back via the market square and the guardhouse, Rozenn left her house and locked up.
Benedict Silvester was a will-o’-the-wisp. It was entirely possible that she might not run him to earth at all. Countess Muriel and her ladies might have to entertain themselves.
Chapter Three
At that very moment Ben was in fact in the castle stables, climbing into the hayloft to meet Alis FitzHubert. He was wearing his second-best tunic, the green linen one that was edged with silver braid at the neck, cuffs and hem, for he planned to win work in Count Remond’s keep later that day. His lute, in its bag, was slung over one shoulder.
Lady Alis was the youngest, the newest and arguably the prettiest of Countess Muriel’s entourage. A blonde beauty, she had arrived at Castle Hellon a few months ago and everyone in the keep had been led to believe she had come from Paris. That her status was relatively high was proclaimed by the deep dye of her pink gown, by the bright silks woven into her girdle, by the silver pins that kept her veil in place. Lady Alis was shod in neat white slippers, slippers that were fashioned for wearing indoors and looked completely impractical to Ben’s eyes, even though he understood the importance of dressing as befitted one’s station. White slippers were certainly out of place in a stable.
The air in the loft was warm and smelt of hay and horses. Shafts of sunlight slanted down through chinks in the slate roof. Outside in the bailey, where the count’s men-at-arms were being put through their paces, the sergeant barked out an order.
‘Christ, Alis,’ Ben muttered, glancing askance at the mounds of hay covering the planked floor, ‘you will have to be more circumspect when you choose the place for our next rendezvous. If we are seen, Sir Edouarz will certainly believe you are not the chaste fiancée you claim to be, and I am in no position to defend you. He could reject you.’
Shrugging off his lute, he set it carefully on a bale of hay. The hayloft was built on a platform to one side of the stables and the ceiling was so low that he had to duck his head to avoid hitting it on a beam.
Alis opened wide blue eyes at him. ‘Sir Edouarz, reject me? I think not, Benedict. When I am done here, my dowry will be large enough to overcome any such scruples. The Duke said—’
‘The Duke had no business asking a woman to undertake such a commission.’
Alis tossed her head and her veil quivered, giving Ben a glimpse of a honey-blonde braid. ‘You think a woman incapable—’
He shook his head. ‘Lord, no, it’s not that, but I wonder if you fully understand the dangers.’
‘I know the risks, Benedict.’ Her voice grew hard. ‘Better than you, I think. My father—’
‘Your father is a fool, but he is blessed to have such a daughter. Jesu, I tell you this, if I were in your father’s position—’
‘Languishing in the Duke’s dungeon…’
‘Aye, if I were he, I would not permit my daughter to take such risks. Look what happened to my own father. Albin had years of experience in the field and three times your strength.’
Alis tipped her head to one side, and a spear of sun turned a strand of hair to gold. ‘How noble, you think women are to be cherished,’ she said, looking at him as though she were seeing him for the first time.
‘Yes, yes, I do,’ Ben said. Rozenn’s features flashed into his mind. There was a woman he had once thought to cherish, but that was years ago. In any case, Rozenn had never shown the slightest desire to be cherished, at least not by him. Rozenn had chosen Per. Keeping a firm rein on his expression, Ben evicted Rose from his mind. As the Duke’s special envoy, a secret and dangerous commission that was known only to a handful of people, he was never likely to be in a position to cherish anyone, let alone encumber himself with a wife. Not that he wanted to; such longings, thankfully, had faded.
Alis was watching him, a tiny smile playing about her lips. ‘Your reputation belies you, Benedict Silvester—you are too much the flirt to cherish anyone.’
Ben shrugged, and forced his mind to the task in hand. He had lain awake half the night, startled by passionate thoughts that centred on Rose, but he would not let thinking about her interfere with his work for Duke Hoël. There would be no such foolishness where Rose was concerned. ‘So, to sum up, you have learned nothing in the months that you have been here?’
‘It takes time, Benedict, to build trust, as I am sure you are aware, but I believe I now have it. Last week the Countess asked me to walk with her when she attended Mass at the Abbey, and again this morning.’
Ben frowned. ‘Surely all the ladies go with her to Mass?’
‘Aye…’ Alis’s voice rose in excitement and Ben put his finger to his lips. She moderated her tone. ‘You miss the point. We all go as her escort, but only one of us goes with her to the confessional. Usually, it’s Ivona Wymark, the chatelaine. Ivona has been with Countess Muriel for years.’
Ben nodded. He knew Ivona. Thoughtfully, he watched the dust motes drifting through a beam of light. ‘Yes, that is well. The next stage—’
‘I know the next stage, Benedict. I will watch, and I will listen. You may tell the Duke that as soon as I hear the slightest whisper about Count Remond initiating a Norman alliance, I will send word. They trust me now. This last week, a couple of strange knights rode in, claiming to have been waylaid by a gang of thieves on the highway.’
Ben stiffened. ‘You think they are Norman envoys?’
Alis raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe so.’
Ben had heard rumours that Anglo-Saxon refugees from England had been seen in this part of the Duchy. He wondered which was worse from the Duke’s point of view: a pact between Count Remond and some of the Saxons dispossessed by William of Normandy, or an alliance with one of the great Norman barons. He ran his hand round his neck. It was not his place to reach any conclusions— the Duke had charged him with bringing information, not with planning his strategy. In any case, Duke Hoël was too clever to prevent agreements being made— particularly when most of them would amount to nothing. No, Duke Hoël employed Ben to inform him of any alliances, and to say how likely it was that one of the barons might actually mount a campaign against him. With the peace and stability of the whole duchy at stake, it was important work.
‘Which baron sent them, I wonder? Argentan? Lessay? Mortain?’
She sighed. ‘Lord knows. But if some sort of a treaty is being made, it is only a matter of time before someone lets something slip.’
‘Good. When I am in England, the Duke will be relying on you here in Quimperlé.’
‘I won’t let him down. The Duke holds my father, remember.’
Alis’s laugh had a bitter edge to it and Ben frowned. Her father, Hubert, was a good man, and while Ben knew that the Duke must have his reasons for imprisoning him, it stuck in his craw that Hubert was kept under lock and key and that his daughter was being drawn into the shadowy world that he had been born to.
‘Alis, before I go, I would ask if there had been any gossip lately among the ladies concerning Rozenn Kerber?’
‘Rozenn Kerber? The seamstress?’ Alis shook her head. ‘What sort of gossip?’
‘Has there been any mention of her making a journey?’
Again, Alis shook her head. ‘Not that I have heard. I did hear she received word from Sir Adam, but no more than that.’ She shrugged. ‘I am sorry, Ben, I have heard nothing. Is she involved with your commission?’
‘You might say that, though she, of course, knows nothing of my work for the Duke.’
The blue eyes opened wide. ‘But Rozenn is one of your oldest friends—she must have her suspicions?’
Firmly, Ben shook his head. ‘I have been more than careful. It is safer for her to believe I am simply a lute- player.’
‘I understand.’
‘And now the Duke has charged me with establishing links with his supporters in England. Since I have never been there, it struck him that suspicions might be raised at my sudden interest in William of Normandy’s new kingdom. Escorting Rose would be the ideal cover.’ Ben grimaced. ‘Lures have been laid, but so far I am not convinced she is tempted.’
‘There has not been so much as a whisper about her leaving in the ladies’ bower. You might try the guardhouse.’ Alis grinned. ‘Don’t look at me like that. Men are just as capable of gossiping as women. Rozenn Kerber has friends in the White Bird, and that is the tavern that Denez, the captain of the guard, favours. Denez and his men might know if Rozenn is planning on leaving.’
‘My thanks.’
In the bailey, a young woman’s voice rose above the tramping of the men-at-arms as she addressed one of the stable lads. ‘In the stable?’ the voice asked.
The stable boy laughed. ‘In the loft, mistress. I saw him go up there.’
Quick footsteps approached.
‘Hell!’ Ben said. ‘This is exactly what I was afraid of.’ Taking Alis by the arms, he dragged her down with him into the hay.
‘Benedict!’
Sweeping her veil from her hair, heedless of silver pins and satin ties, he covered her mouth with his hand. ‘Shut up, Alis, for pity’s sake.’ Then, rolling her firmly under him, he buried his face in her neck.
* * *
‘You saw him climb into the hayloft?’ Rozenn repeated, standing in puzzlement at the foot of the ladder. She tipped her head back and looked up, but could see nothing save the edge of the wooden platform and a couple of greying bales of fodder, left over from the past winter. ‘Are you sure it was he?’
The stable boy shifted the straw he was sucking from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘I can’t say I know Ben Silvester by sight exactly, but whoever followed her up there had a lute strapped to his back, so it must be him.’
Rozenn felt the unwonted happiness that had been with her since dawn drain away like so much water through a sieve. ‘Ben f-followed her up there?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
There was a lump in her throat the size of a hen’s egg. ‘Who—who did he follow?’
‘That Norman lady, the one with the yellow hair.’
‘Lady Alis,’ Rozenn murmured, heart sinking to the floor. ‘The pretty one.’
The stable boy’s grin was knowing. He spoke through the straw in his mouth. ‘Aye, that’s the one.’
The muscles in Rozenn’s face seemed to have gone stiff, and for the life of her she was unable to smile back. Since she had decided to marry Sir Richard of Asculf, she should not care—it was no business of hers who Ben Silvester tumbled in the hay. And since she already knew what Ben was like, this was scarcely a surprise. But unfortunately, this was one time she could not walk away and pretend to be unaware. This time the Countess had commanded her to fetch him.
How embarrassing.
Tucking the hem of her skirt into her girdle so she would not trip, Rozenn gripped the ladder and started to climb. Halfway up she paused, glanced down at the grinning stable boy and said, ‘Thank you, Ivar, you may go.’ No sense the whole world knowing….
Ivar picked up a nearby shovel and ambled out into the sunlit bailey. ‘Holà, Denez!’ Ivar called a greeting, his voice fading as he engaged in conversation with Count Remond’s captain and walked with him towards the barns.
As Rozenn neared the top of the ladder, hay rustled. Clenching her jaw, she forced herself up another rung. A low murmur reached her.
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Yes, that was Ben’s voice. Rose felt sick, she actually felt sick. Then came a feminine giggle that tied knots in her belly.
‘Let him think what he likes,’ the woman hissed back. ‘He will learn the truth when he marries me.’
Another rung. Another. Rozenn’s feet were lumps of lead and her heart was thumping so loudly she could no longer hear the guards drilling in the bailey nor the horses stamping in the stalls below. Another rung and she was at the top.
And there he was, Benedict Silvester—that coal-dark hair was unmistakable, though his face was hidden since he was wrapped round Lady Alis FitzHubert, pinning her to the straw-strewn boards with his body. One of his long legs…
Jaw clenched, she stumbled on to the platform.
Ben lifted his head, and blanched. ‘Rose!’
He was surprised to see her, that much was plain. Pushing away from Lady Alis, he shoved his hair out of his face with that characteristic gesture that betrayed his unease more than words ever could. So he used to look when, as a young boy, he first fought his natural shyness to entertain the old Count and his household.
‘Holà, Ben,’ Rose said. The careless words she had prepared stuck in her throat; the loft blurred and wavered in a pointless rush of tears. Turning away, she blinked like a mad thing and fought for control. When she had composed herself, Ben and Lady Alis were both sitting up and he was picking straw from her back while she was placidly re-plaiting her fine blonde hair.
Rozenn tried to ignore the straw stuck in Ben’s hair. ‘Up to your old tricks, I see,’ she managed. ‘It didn’t take you long.’
Ben’s eyes met hers, and for a moment he looked as uncomfortable as she could wish. Good. She was glad she had interrupted them.
Suddenly, his eyes lit up and he grinned. ‘You wanted me, Rozenn?’ His voice was low, deliberately suggestive.
Damn the man! How was it that his responses were invariably laced with double entendres? Not that it would ever matter to her, she was far too sensible to be interested in a wastrel like Benedict Silvester, not in that way at any rate.
He pressed a swift kiss to Alis’s cheek and, shifting away from her, patted the straw invitingly. ‘Come on, Rozenn, you know you want to…’
Grinding her teeth at his effrontery, Rozenn stepped blindly towards him. In that moment, she wanted to clout him into next week.
Ben rose to his feet in one lithe movement and, reaching for her hand, drew her away from the edge of the platform. ‘Careful, little flower, we don’t want you tripping over that pretty gown, do we?’ Gallant as any knight, may the devil blast him, while he gripped her hand so hard she could not free herself without making a scene.
Alis sat where Ben had left her, unconcernedly tidying herself. Taking her time about it. She had a contented smile on her lips, and a satisfied glow to her cheeks. She looked well and truly… Rozenn sought for a word… Loved sprang to mind, but it was easy to dismiss. Loved…by Benedict Silvester? A wandering minstrel who had more than his share of women in every town and castle in the Duchy?
The object of her anger nudged Alis gently with his boot. ‘I’ll see you later, chérie.’ He swung Rozenn’s hand to and fro and would not release her.
‘Hmm?’ Alis looked up, her blue eyes shifting from Ben to Rozenn and back again. ‘Oh. You want to talk to Madame Kerber?’ The girl had the gall to sound surprised, but she stood up, made a play of smoothing down her gown and reached for the ladder.
Rozenn tapped her foot until Alis had made it to ground level and the door of the stables had clanged shut behind her. The shadows deepened.
Ben eased his grip on her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘I missed you this morning, ma belle.’
Rozenn snatched back her hand.
He recaptured it with a grin. ‘You wanted me?’
‘Yes! I…I mean, no, I wanted to speak to you,’ Rozenn said, tripping over herself before she saw the laughter spring into his eyes. ‘Oh, you wretch, Ben, you are incorrigible.’
He gave her one of his disarming smiles, but his eyes were serious. ‘You are all right? Is something amiss?’
Rozenn shook her head. ‘Countess Muriel sent me to fetch you, she’d like you to play for us in the solar. Immediately. Your usual fee, she said.’
* * *
In the solar, Rozenn stood with her back to the south- facing window seat. Here, where the light was strongest, Countess Muriel and the rest of the ladies murmured softly one to another as they sat round the table, working on the vast wall-hanging for the Hall. Some of the figures Rose had sketched on to the canvas had been smudged the previous evening when careless hands had rolled it away for the night. Rose had been re-drawing them, and her fingers were black with charcoal. Absently, she wiped them on her skirts.
She did not look at Lady Alis, but out of the corner of her eye she noticed Ben dragging a stool to one side of the great fireplace. He set about tuning his lute. The lute had once belonged to Ben’s father, and it had been made to a Moorish pattern. It had a round body like the shell of a turtle, and the wood gleamed with a rich patina that owed much to years of loving use. The pegbox curved back on itself to resemble a leopard’s head. She watched Ben’s long fingers caress the leopard’s head as he plucked each string and adjusted the pegs.
The fire crackled. It was warm outside the castle, but the fire that burned in the wide fireplace was a necessity. It would take more than a few days’ sun to heat the keep’s thick granite walls.
Catching Rozenn’s glance, Ben threw her a grin, but Rozenn was nursing her anger with him and she hunched her shoulder and looked out of the window.
The Isle du Château sat at the junction of the Isole and the Ellé, like a boat anchored midstream. It was at this point that the two rivers became the Laïta before rolling on to the sea. Rozenn screwed her eyes up against a dazzle of sun, but she could still make out the marshes on the left bank. And on the right bank, just behind the port, the steep escarpment rose dramatically. She ran her eyes over the familiar jumble of houses running up from the port to Hauteville, the quarter where she had lived since her marriage to Per. Quimperlé. It was all the world she had ever known.
Was she wise to consider leaving? With Per dead and Adam gone and Ben hardly ever about, there was little reason to stay. Also, whenever the Countess tried to persuade her to move back into the Château where she had been brought up, she felt hemmed in and restless. In short, she didn’t feel like herself. Quimperlé, much as she loved it, no longer felt like home.
As far as Rose was concerned, Sir Richard’s proposal could not have come at a better moment. She thought about her adopted mother, Ivona, and chewed her bottom lip. Soon she must tell Ivona about Adam’s wish that they should travel to England. Ivona would hate the idea and Rozenn was dreading discussing it, dreading the inevitable questions that would follow. But why do you want to leave, Rozenn? Why not wait for Sir Richard to join you here? She was also dreading the moment when she informed Countess Muriel of her departure. She frowned. The thought of neither interview filled her with joy, but she could not put them off for ever.
Behind her Ben began to play. A love song, naturally. The ladies cooed and sighed. Rozenn rolled her eyes.
Her cheeks burned as she recognised the song. Fighting the impulse to cool them with the back of her hands, she turned and glared at him. Before Ben had left Quimperlé, after his last, fleeting visit—the visit when he had quarrelled with Adam—he had sung this particular song one suppertime in the Great Hall. Those soulful brown eyes had focused entirely on her and she had not been able to think her own thoughts. He was such a flirt.
Why, the rogue still has a piece of straw stuck in his hair, she noticed, biting hard on the inside of her cheeks to stifle a smile. Dear Lord, why could she never remain angry with him for more than one minute at a time?
‘Rozenn, dear…’ Countess Muriel was scowling at her section of wall-hanging ‘…which colour had you in mind for this lady’s gown?’
‘I thought the sky blue, Comptesse, since most of the background will be green, but wouldn’t it be best to work the darker wools first, as we had agreed?’
‘Oh, yes, I remember.’ Countess Muriel smiled and bent over the coloured hanks.
‘Since Emma is working on the grass, you might like to work with that deep red. It would be good for those flowers. Or you could take that chestnut brown and work one of the deer.’
The solar door slammed and the flames danced in the hearth, as Rozenn’s mother by adoption glided into the room.
‘Ivona, welcome,’ Countess Muriel said, looking up from the tapestry. ‘Have you seen the children?’
Children. Rozenn’s stomach knotted as a wave of longing swept over her. Children. Her marriage with Per had been childless and she worried that the cause might lie at her door. Would Sir Richard think it her fault? Two years married and no children? Would Sir Richard reject her lest she be barren as some in this town had been whispering before Per’s death? A knight must have heirs…
In that unguarded moment she met Ben’s eyes, and it seemed the link between them was as strong as ever. She read sympathy and understanding in his dark gaze—it was as though Ben understood what she felt, that he could read her mind. Which was nonsense. As children they had been close, but these days Ben was…just Ben…a footloose minstrel…a flirt…a devil who made his way by appearing to sympathise with everyone.
‘The children are playing in the bailey, Comptesse,’ her mother said, ‘now that the guards have finished their drill.’
‘Good. Here, Rozenn…’ the Countess patted the stool next to hers ‘…come and sit by me. You can help me do the background.’
Moving round the trestle, careful to avoid Lady Alis, Rozenn squeezed past Ben as he sat by the fire. He made no attempt to move his legs and as her skirt brushed his knees, her stomach fluttered. Brow creasing, she took her place by the Countess, conscious of Ben Silvester at her back, as his voice, his beautiful voice, floated over their heads, singing of true love, of faithfulness, of heroes winning their heroines though all the dice in the world were loaded against them.
Her heart twisted. She wished he had chosen another song, any other song, and must have muttered something under her breath as Ivona joined her at the trestle. Her adopted mother’s eyes were too weak for close work these days, but she usually came to sit with the other women when her duties as chatelaine allowed.
‘What was that, dear?’ Ivona asked.
Rozenn jerked her head in Ben’s direction. ‘Ben’s song, Mama—don’t you think he’s in good voice?’
Ivona pursed her lips. ‘“The Faithful Lover”,’ she murmured, repeating the song’s title. ‘Aye, he is—which is a wonder given the subject matter.’
‘Mama?’
Ivona lifted her shoulders. ‘Everyone knows that boy doesn’t have a faithful bone in his body. But then…’ Ivona shot Ben a meaningful glance ‘…he’s paid to sing well, perhaps that helps him infuse the song with meaning.’
Rozenn found herself shifting away from Ivona, towards the Countess. ‘Don’t, Mama,’ she muttered, at a loss to know why she felt compelled to rush to Ben’s defence. She had never been able to fathom it, but in recent years Ivona seemed to hold Ben in dislike. ‘It’s not his fault everyone adores him.’
Her stepmother sniffed and picking up a hank of primrose-coloured wool, began winding it into a ball. ‘It’s his fault he acts on their adulation, though,’ Ivona went on in an undertone. ‘Particularly with the young women. Benedict Silvester has had more lovers than the whole of the garrison put together.’
Not trusting herself to comment, especially after what she had witnessed in the stables only that morning, Rozenn turned to the Countess to help her pick out some more thread.
The love song was finishing, which was a blessing because, oddly, it felt as though Ben had been directing it at her.
‘Rozenn, dear?’ Countess Muriel gave her a strange look, a look that said she’d already addressed her and Rozenn had missed what had been said.
‘Comptesse?’
‘You really ought to move back into the keep. I hear there were disturbances last night. It’s not safe for a young woman to live alone in the town.’
Rozenn stiffened. Not this again. Ever since Per’s death, both the Countess and Ivona had been asking for her return. But, like Ben, Rozenn had no particular liking for sleeping in common. She had enjoyed the privacy her marriage with Per had given her; it was rare and precious and she was not about to give it up. And, in any case, it would not be for much longer.
‘With respect, Comptesse, Hauteville is perfectly safe.’
Countess Muriel looked down her nose at her in the way she always did when she was displeased. ‘Why is it, Rozenn, that when you answer me with one of your “with respects” I have the suspicion that you do not respect my views in the least?’
A choke, swiftly smothered, came from the fireplace and, a heartbeat later, Ben struck up another tune.
Ivona leaned forwards, surreptitiously digging Rozenn in the ribs. ‘Comptesse Muriel, Rozenn has ever been independent, she did not mean any disrespect.’
‘No, indeed,’ Rozenn murmured agreement. ‘But I must say that Ivona is correct. I do enjoy living in the town. I have friends there, Comptesse, and I would miss them if I moved back to the keep.’
‘You have friends here,’ Countess Muriel said softly.
Rozenn caught her breath. ‘I know, but—’
‘Friends who are, I think, your best patrons…’
The Countess’s insistence was unnerving. Thoughts racing, Rozenn concealed a sigh. She had hoped a simple refusal would suffice, forgetting how Countess Muriel liked to get her way. But if the Countess knew that she intended leaving, perhaps even she would not be so insistent. Rozenn glanced at the ladies clustered round the great canvas. This was not the time to break the news, either to her mother or to the Countess, not when they were surrounded by a roomful of women.
‘Yes, Comptesse,’ Rozenn said. ‘I am grateful for that, but—’
‘Friends whom you may be loathe to lose, Rozenn.’
Rozenn swallowed. The warning was clear. This might not be the moment to discuss her proposal and Adam’s summons, but she was not about to be bullied. ‘Indeed, Comptesse, but—’
‘Your husband left debts, I understand. Have you cleared them?’
Rozenn relaxed; here she was on firmer ground. ‘Almost. One more day at market should see the tallies set straight.’
‘Good.’ Countess Muriel smiled. ‘Then you can concentrate on your sewing—a much better occupation for a young woman than hustling at a market stall. Besides…’ another smile, this one directed at Ivona ‘…I should not like to see Quimperlé’s best seamstress arraigned at my husband’s court for debt.’
Wishing the Countess would focus on someone else, Rozenn squirmed on her stool. A ripple of notes drew all eyes as Ben finished the song with a flourish. Rozenn blinked. Surely he’d missed a couple of verses?
‘Excuse me, Comptesse,’ he said. ‘What would you like me to play next?’
Bless you, Ben. Glancing over her shoulder, Rozenn flashed him a smile.
‘I should like a story this time, Benedict,’ the Countess replied. ‘Tell us the one about Tristan and Isolde.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lady Alis breathed, blue eyes wide. ‘Tristan and Isolde, I adore that one.’
Rozenn gritted her teeth and stared blindly at a knight on the wall-hanging, so she would not have to see Ben exchange smiles with the girl he had met in the hayloft. Then, unable to bear it any more, she turned her head and shot him a brief glance.
He had laid his lute across his knees. Opening his eyes wide—he was not looking at Lady Alis—he began to recite. ‘Once upon a time, King Mark…’
As Ben’s seductive voice filled the solar, conversations drew to a halt. Needles froze over the canvas. Heads turned in the direction of the fireplace, old heads as well as young. Rozenn pursed her lips. Was no one proof to his charms?
Ben’s voice, she had to admit, was his chief asset—it had a way of reaching deep into your heart. At least, that was how it was for her, and, given Ben’s success and popularity, she assumed others felt the same. Reaching for a length of sage-green wool, Rozenn threaded a needle and shuffled closer to the table. Her stool leg squeaked.
Countess Muriel tutted.
‘My apologies,’ Rozenn mouthed, and bent over the canvas.
Yes, his voice was perfect. It was clear, it was carrying and it was somehow caressing. Like his fingers. A memory of the previous night flashed in on her, when she and Ben had been talking to each other with only her table between them. He had held her hand and his fingers had moved gently over hers. So gently. She could almost feel the warmth of his fingertips as she would feel them if he were to lift her hand to his lips. Later, he might lean forwards across the table and reach for her…he might slide his other hand round her neck, he might bring his lips to hers, he might…
Her needle ran into her finger and she gasped.
‘Rozenn, do be still.’ The Countess frowned. ‘And mind you don’t bleed on the canvas.’
Nodding an apology, Rozenn blinked at the welling blood and lifted her finger to her mouth. What was she about? Just because Ben’s voice had the power to seduce half of Brittany did not mean it had the power to seduce her.
He had reached the point in the story when the lovers were sleeping in each others’ arms, deep in the forest.
With rather more of an effort of will than she would have liked—the picture of Ben’s arms around her was worryingly compelling—Rozenn made herself think of another pair of arms.
Richard of Asculf’s. It is Sir Richard I yearn for in that way. And then, for one heart-sinking moment, she was utterly unable to recall the colour of Sir Richard’s eyes. Brown? Blue? No, brown. Or was it grey? Lord. A knight, he’s a knight, she muttered to herself, trying to close out the distracting sound of Benedict Silvester’s voice.
Lady Josefa—Rozenn’s jaw clenched—had abandoned all pretence of embroidering, and was sitting with her hands resting idle on the wall-hanging, gazing at Ben as though he were her only hope of salvation.
Hunching her shoulder—really, Josefa was embarrassing— Rozenn sneaked a look in Ben’s direction. It was just her luck that his eyes were open and he happened to be facing her way. He didn’t falter in his telling of the story, but his voice did soften as their eyes met. A curl of awareness unfurled in her belly. Damn him. Huffing out a breath, she turned back to her work.
As the story unfolded Rozenn held the image of Sir Richard in the forefront of her mind. The last time she had seen Sir Richard he had been riding out of Quimperlé at her brother’s side. Two knights, one Norman and born to his station, with lands and a proud ancestry, and the other but newly knighted and with not one acre to his name. How kind Sir Richard was to have given me a gold cross. How kind he was, Rozenn thought, deliberately blocking out the beguiling sound of Ben’s voice, to befriend Adam when he had been but an eager squire. Not many knights would bother with the son of a lowly horse- master. Firmly, she squashed the urge to turn to see if Ben was returning that idiotic smile Lady Josefa was sending his way.
Where was she? Ah, yes, how kind of Sir Richard to have sponsored Adam, to have seen him knighted. Yes, she had chosen a kind man, an honourable man. When Sir Richard and Adam had ridden out in response to William of Normandy’s call to arms, they had looked so fine. She had been proud of her brother. And of Sir Richard, naturally. Rozenn frowned. But the colour of his eyes? Brown, surely, like Ben’s?
She wriggled on her stool and again the legs screeched on the floorboards. Countess Muriel glared.
Sir Richard was taller than Ben, much broader, larger all over. Big hands. She had noticed that particularly, on the day he had challenged Ben to a lute-playing contest. The size of his large, battle-scarred fingers—her lips curved in a smile—Sir Richard could never hope to match Ben on a lute. But he had done astonishingly well, considering.
She sighed. Ben was… No—Sir Richard. It was SirRichard she was thinking about, not Ben. Sir Richard was taller, very handsome with his brown hair and his broad shoulders. A man indeed.
Sneaking a sidelong glance under her lashes at Ben, Rozenn felt again that unsettling tremble in her belly. Ben was not as tall as Sir Richard, but he was, she had to confess, perfectly proportioned—strong shoulders, narrow waist, as ever accentuated by a wide leather belt. Ben knew how to make the best of himself, that green tunic matched those tiny flecks in his eyes exactly.
Needle suspended over her work, Rozenn did not notice that it had been some moments since she had set a stitch.
But Ben did. He intercepted her gaze and a dark eyebrow quirked upwards.
Hastily, Rozenn focused on the canvas, damping down that irritating flutter of awareness that only he could elicit. Even her idol, even Sir Richard never had that effect on her. Thank goodness. It was far too discomfiting.
She, Rozenn Kerber, would marry Sir Richard, on that she was determined. She was going to be a lady. One day she would have a solar of her own, and other women would join her there to work on the tapestries and wall- hangings that would decorate her hall. Perhaps, like Countess Muriel, she would hire a lute-player, maybe even Benedict Silvester himself if he was lucky, to entertain them while they sewed.
Chapter Four
That afternoon, Mikaela came to the Isle du Château to ask for Rozenn’s company. As was her custom when entering the castle precincts, she was wearing her veil. She came directly to the solar, where the Countess, having tired of sewing, was happy to wave Rozenn away.
It was a Friday, a fish day, and every Friday since Per’s death, Rozenn had got into the habit of accompanying Mikaela to the fish market, which was held in Basseville on the quayside. There she would help her friend choose fish for the tavern and load them on Anton’s cart. In return for her assistance, Mikaela usually sent Rozenn a portion of whatever dish resulted such as baked cod, or mussels in wine.
Leaving the keep, the girls walked through sunlit streets towards the Pont du Port. Count Remond’s guards stood sentry at the gateway that led from the castle to the quays. Ben was with them, hip propped against the wooden rail of the bridge, dark hair ruffled by the breeze. He was apparently deep in conversation with Denez, the guards’ captain. Rozenn thought she heard her name mentioned, but at that moment Ben noticed her and turned her name into a greeting so smoothly, she wondered if she had imagined it.
‘Mistress Kerber!’ Ben’s brown eyes were laughing as he straightened and swept her a bow worthy of a duchess. ‘Good afternoon to you. And Mademoiselle Bréhat.’
‘Holà, Ben.’ Mikaela smiled. ‘Distracting the sentries from their duties?’
‘Naturally.’ Ben resumed his position propped against the handrail. His lips drew Rozenn’s gaze, and, as she looked, they twitched upwards. Colouring, she met his glance, gave her head a slight shake, and made to step past him. Had he been talking about her? She must be mistaken—why would Ben have been talking to Denez about her?
Ben put out a hand. ‘Want to earn a couple of deniers, Rozenn? Mikaela?’
‘How so?’
‘I propose a race—swimming versus running.’
Rozenn gave Ben a level look. She couldn’t swim— all her life she had been terrified of water—but Ben swam like a fish. He was pointing to where the jetty in the marshes was sited, lost in the tall reeds on the east bank.
‘I reckon I can swim to the jetty and back in the time it takes Jerome here to run to and from St Michael’s in Hauteville.’
Captain Denez snorted. ‘You take us for fools, Silvester, but we know you of old. You’d cheat, and since we can’t exactly see the jetty from here, what’s to say you never actually reach it?’
‘Me? Cheat?’ Ben puffed out his chest and affected to look affronted, but Rozenn knew he was no such thing. He was teasing Count Remond’s troopers, enjoying it almost as much as they were. ‘As if I would…’ He winked at Mikaela, who flushed prettily and gave a little trill of a laugh. ‘But in case you are worried, I have an idea. One of your men can run round to the marshes and wait for me on the jetty. Jafrez, be my witness?’
Denez rubbed his chin. ‘You have to actually touch the jetty, mind.’
Mikaela stirred. ‘I set some eel traps by the jetty,’ she said thoughtfully.
Ben gave Mikaela a soft smile. ‘You wouldn’t want to check them, would you, chérie? Then you could be my witness since these disbelieving oafs won’t accept my word. They will accept yours, won’t you, Denez?’
‘Aye.’
‘I thought we were going to the fish market,’ Rozenn put in, her voice sounding more disgruntled than she had intended.
Mikaela shrugged. ‘Eel counts as fish, you know that. If caught some, I could smoke them or make a pie.’ To Rozenn’s dismay, Mikaela slanted Ben just the sort of look that Rozenn would have expected Lady Alis FitzHubert to give him. It startled her coming from her friend.
She tamped down a flare of anger. It was one thing for Ben to flirt with Lady Alis who ought to know better, but quite another to flirt with Mikaela. He should not encourage her in this way. Mikaela was very young and she might not realise that Ben’s smiles were just another of the tools of his trade, they did not necessarily mean anything. She hoped Mikaela was not taken in.
Mikaela was smiling happily up at him. ‘We’ll go— we’ll witness you reach the jetty, won’t we, Rozenn?’
Brown, thick-lashed eyes looked her way. He cocked a brow at her. ‘Rozenn?’
‘Oh, yes. I suppose so.’
Ben laid his hand on his heart. ‘My thanks, mesdames. And if you’d care to lay a wager of your own…’
‘Certainly not!’ Rozenn said tartly. ‘We can’t afford to be throwing hard-earned money around.’
‘Your money’s not at any risk.’ Ben’s smile was confident. ‘I’ll reach the jetty and be back before Jerome even makes it to St Michael’s, never mind returns. And, I must say, talking of witnesses, how do I know I can trust Jerome to run all that way without cheating? He might turn back early and who would know? Fair’s fair, I demand a witness too. Any volunteers?’
One of the guards stepped forwards. ‘I’ll go.’
‘Good man.’
Mikaela walked boldly up to Ben and put her hand on his. ‘I’ll be wanting a kiss for my pains,’ she said.
Denez whooped, Rozenn looked heavenwards.
Ben sent Mikaela a slow grin. ‘It will be my pleasure, chérie, my pleasure.’
‘When’s the wager taking place?’
‘As soon as you and Rozenn reach that jetty?’
Eyes alight with laughter, Mikaela grabbed Rozenn’s arm. ‘We’re on our way.’
‘My thanks. We should be able to see you standing on the jetty, but just in case we cannot, wave your veils when you get there. That can be our starting signal—agreed, Jerome?’
‘Agreed.’
Mikaela turned Rozenn back to face the bailey, for the way to the footpath into the marshes lay back past Ste Croix and off the island via the East Bridge rather than the Pont du Port. As they stepped off the Pont du Port and back into the bailey, Mikaela grinned over her shoulder at Ben. ‘A kiss, remember?’
Ben’s smile was warm. ‘Chérie, how could I forget?’
Rozenn said nothing, nothing at all, but she couldn’t help wondering if Ben was ever serious. A thought which saddened her for no reason that she could point to.
A few minutes later, with the sun on their backs, the girls stepped onto the jetty and looked back towards the Isle du Château. They had hurried all the way, picking up their skirts when they reached the wooden walkway through the marshes. Some of the planks were rotting and the walkway was springy underfoot, but they arrived without mishap, though the hems of their skirts were dark with damp. There was more breeze here in the marshes; it rattled the reeds and tugged at their veils.
‘Look!’ Mikaela pointed, screwing up her eyes.
Some years ago, Rozenn had discovered her friend’s eyes were slightly weak. They were not weak in the same way that Ivona’s eyes were weak, for seeing close to— no, it was distances Mikaela had difficulty with.
‘There they are, on the bridge,’ Mikaela went on, still squinting. ‘Ben’s green tunic shows up really well.’
‘Yes, that’s Ben.’
The guards were clustered around him and his challenger, Jerome.
Mikaela stared towards the castle. ‘What’s happening, Rose?’
‘Ben and Jerome are being spun round—Jerome is being pointed towards the town and Ben—Ben’s… Oh! He’s climbing on to the guardrail, oh, no…’ Rozenn’s voice trailed off as, with a dramatic flourish, Ben gave one of his dramatic bows.
‘What, Rozenn, what?’
Rozenn sighed. ‘He’s playing to the gallery, as usual.’
Mikaela looked a question at her. ‘You sound upset.’
‘Upset? No. I just wish that, for once, Ben didn’t have to be so…so…’
‘Entertaining?’ Mikaela grinned. ‘But that’s what he does, Ben’s an entertainer.’
About to object, Rozenn snapped her mouth shut. Mikaela was absolutely right, Ben was an entertainer, which was why people loved him so. And it wasn’t just women who loved him, she thought, as she recalled the expectant look in the guards’ eyes and the grins that lit faces that, for the most part, had little to grin about.
The life expectancy of one of Count Remond’s troopers was not good. Captain Denez, one of the oldest and longest serving, was only thirty, but he looked at least forty. At best life was harsh for these men, at worst, brutal. If Ben could bring a little light and laughter into their lives, then well and good.
Across the water, Ben was tripping light as a tumbler along the guardrail, using it as a tightrope, surrounded by smiling faces. A gust of laughter floated downriver towards them. Rose’s sense of misgiving eased. She must not turn into a killjoy. This was what Ben did, it was his raison d’être, and what kind of a friend would she be if she could not accept him for what he was? And since Ben did not have her fear of water, there was no way he would drown.
It is just that, sometimes, it is hard to see him continually playing the fool; and sometimes it is hard to share him with so many others.
Aghast at the possessive nature of that last thought, she snapped her brows together. Where on earth had that come from?
‘Oh, no,’ Rozenn muttered, as Ben unbuckled his belt and lobbed it to one of the guards, its silver buckle flashing in the sun.
‘What?’
Rozenn swallowed. ‘He…he’s taking his tunic off.’
‘I should think so, such a fine tunic, it would be a shame to spoil it. Did you make it?’
‘No.’
Mikaela kept her attention on the group on the Pont du Port. ‘I wish I could see properly.’
Rozenn murmured something noncommittal, her own eyes fixed on the lithe figure balanced on the bridge guardrail. The green tunic was tossed carelessly aside and was immediately followed by a cream linen chainse. That she had made, some years before. She was touched he still wore it.
The guards let out a cheer.
Rozenn cleared her throat. It was at least a hundred yards to the bridge, but even at this distance the sight of Ben’s naked back set curls of tension winding in her belly. Why that should be, she could not imagine, especially since she had already seen his naked back several times before when they were children. And this morning, she reminded herself, heat flooding her cheeks, she had last seen his naked back this morning. She could not seem to tear her gaze from those athletic shoulders, the curve of his buttocks…
Thank God he was keeping on his hose. Wasn’t he?
Hopping on one foot—how on earth did he keep his balance on the rail?—Ben tore a boot off and tossed it at a guard. Its fellow followed. To her relief he made no move to remove his hose.
From the throats of half-a-dozen men at arms, a slow countdown began.
‘Ready!’ Mikaela cried. She snatched her veil from her head and waved like a mad thing. ‘Steady!’ She jumped up and down, her enthusiasm shaking the entire jetty. ‘Go!’
Ben turned to face them, grinned across the water and dived into the river with barely a ripple.
At the same moment, Jerome hared off across the Pont du Port and up the hill towards Hauteville. In a moment, he had run out of sight behind the houses that clung to the escarpment on the other side of the river.
Ben’s dark head remained visible as, sleek as an otter, he cut his way through the water with the swift, clean strokes that Rozenn remembered from their childhood.
‘It’s easier this way, he’s swimming with the stream,’ Mikaela said. ‘He will find it harder on the way back.’
Absently, Rozenn nodded, holding her breath lest she lose sight of that dark head, of those strong, well-formed arms… If Ben drowned, if Ben drowned… Though she reminded herself that, unlike her, Ben swam well, the fear remained. Ridiculous. Ben would not drown.
Reeds rustled by the jetty, and she caught a flash of red as a water-rail squealed. A dragonfly darted. The sun was hot, it was shining in the water droplets falling in silver arcs from Ben’s arms.
Mikaela tucked her veil in her belt and approached the edge of the jetty.
‘Take care, Mikaela, that plank doesn’t look very secure,’ Rozenn warned, even as Ben reached the jetty and proved her wrong by hauling himself out of the river in one swift movement.
Shaking water from his eyes, Ben put his hands on his hips and grinned. ‘A kiss,’ he said, looking at Mikaela. ‘I claim my kiss.’ He was barely out of breath.
As Mikaela stepped up and offered Ben her lips a distant shout from the bridge reminded those on the jetty that there were men who had wagered their pay on Benedict Silvester winning the race. He had to get back…
‘Hey, Silvester!’
‘Shift yourself!’
Playing to his audience, Ben swung Mikaela dramatically into his arms—his wet arms, Rozenn thought waspishly— and gave her a smacking kiss on the lips. A piece of weed clung to one well-muscled shoulder like a hank of wet wool.
A pain in her breast, Rozenn jerked her head away and glared into the dark water drifting past the jetty. A rousing cheer from the Pont du Port told her that Ben’s audience approved of what he was doing. Which she, most certainly, did not. She huffed out a breath. As for Mikaela, she should know better…
Releasing Mikaela, Ben looked her way. Mikaela’s dress was dark with damp from breast to knee, not that she was looking. ‘Rose?’ Ben murmured and held out his hand. ‘Your turn.’
Rozenn stumbled back a pace, but then, and she was not quite sure how he managed it, Ben stepped forwards and in a trice she was standing hip to hip with him on the jetty, gazing into those long-lashed eyes, so close she could see the green and grey flecks. Her hands were resting on his naked shoulders, his were on her waist. How had that happened? Her mouth went dry.
‘Oh, no.’
He tilted his head to one side, eyes on her lips. ‘No?’
She shook her head. ‘Y…you’ve already had your kiss. From Mikaela.’
The crowd on the bridge screamed encouragement.
The hands at her waist were cool from the water and were drawing her closer. His eyes were dark as night and—surely not? Was there just a hint of uncertainty in his smile, a hint of vulnerability? No. This was Benedict Silvester, the showman who had never known a day’s uncertainty in his life.
‘Why settle for one kiss, when I might have two?’ His voice went low and intimate, for her ears alone. ‘Rozenn, I would swim to England for your kiss.’
No… Her ears must be deceiving her. Ben could not have said that, and in so serious a tone—he had to be teasing her. And then thought fled as he whirled her around so she had her back to Castle Hellon and the audience on the bridge. He lowered his lips to hers. Rozenn did not struggle, though her heart was pounding as though it was she who had swum from castle to marshes, not he.
His kiss began light as thistledown, so light that she could barely feel it. Her body went quite still, as if it were curious, as if it wanted to know what kissing Benedict Silvester would be like.
We shouldn’t be doing this, her mind protested, while her body hung limp as a rag doll in his arms and experienced what it was like to kiss him.
Achingly gentle. How surprising. Warm lips, despite the swim, lips that moved softly over hers and made her want to melt into him and… A lock of his hair flopped forwards and the chill drip of river water ran down her cheek and into the bosom of her gown. He tasted of heaven, he tasted of everything she had ever dreamed of, he tasted of…Ben.

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