An Honourable Rogue. Carol Townend
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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.
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