An Honourable Rogue

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 Sir Richard 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.