An Honourable Rogue. Carol Townend
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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