An Honourable Rogue

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.