Читать книгу An Honourable Rogue - Carol Townend, Carol Townend - Страница 8

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 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.