yes, of course I do! It’s Ben, Benedict Silvester!’
The wine-skin jerked in Rozenn’s hand. Rozenn stared blankly at a dark pool of wine that had somehow splashed on to the table. ‘B-Ben?’
‘Yes! The lute-player.’
Rozenn snorted and shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t love Benedict Silvester if he were the last man on earth.’
Mikaela raised a brow. ‘You wouldn’t? I always thought you adored each other. You played together as children whenever he was around—inseparable, you were.’
‘Children are extremely uncritical.’
‘But you do like him, Rose, I know you do!’
‘Yes, yes, of course I like him,’ Rozenn said, a touch impatiently. ‘How could I not? He’s kind and witty and amusing.’
Mikaela’s expression grew dreamy. ‘Handsome, Rozenn. Don’t forget that. Those eyes—dark as sin—’
‘He’s a rootless charmer—’
‘Those long eyelashes…hair like ebony. And he plays the lute like an angel.’
‘That last is true.’
Mikaela’s bosom heaved. ‘And as for his body…’
Rozenn scowled. ‘What would you know about Ben’s body?’
Mikaela’s lips twitched. ‘I thought that would sting. I know I’m right, it is Ben! Rozenn loves Ben Silvester…’
‘I do not!’ Rozenn thumped Mikaela’s cup down on the table and turned to the hearth where Stefan’s pie was warming in a dish. Honesty compelled her to add, ‘At least, not in the way you mean. I love him as a brother, in the same way that I love Adam.’
Mikaela tipped her head to one side. ‘I thought at one time you would marry Ben, you and he seemed so well suited, but you married Per and—’
‘Ben and I? Well suited? You link me with a feckless lute-player who has seduced half the women in Brittany! You flatter me…’
Mikaela did not respond. Her finger tapped on her mouth.
‘Besides,’ Rozenn said, frowning, ‘I haven’t seen Ben in two years. Not since that quarrel that flared up between him and Adam.’
‘Yes, that was odd. Until then they had been very close. I wonder what it was about?’
‘I have no idea, Adam would never say.’
‘So there has to be someone else who hasn’t been in Quimperlé for some time,’ Mikaela said thoughtfully. ‘Someone else whom you love?’
‘Yes. And it really is not Benedict Silvester. Think again.’
Mikaela sipped at her wine and eyed Rozenn over the rim of her cup. ‘This is good. Did you buy it from Father?’
‘Countess Muriel gave it to me. Come on, Mikaela, guess again.’
Setting her cup down, Mikaela shook her head. ‘Lord knows, if it’s not Ben. Mark?’
‘Mark Quémeneur? No, he’s more of a business associate.’
‘One of Adam’s cronies then? Didn’t you have word from him a week back?’
‘Yes and yes. Your aim is improving!’
‘So, this paragon is a knight? Aye, you would have it in mind to marry a knight…’
Setting the pie on the table, Rozenn pulled up a stool opposite Mikaela.
‘Not that knight who gave you that gold cross, the one with a lute like Ben’s? Not Sir Richard of Asculf?’
With a flourish, Rozenn cut a large slice from Stefan’s pie. ‘The very same, well done! You, dear friend, have won yourself some of the best chicken pie in Quimperlé.’
Later that night, Rozenn lay in the bed by the wall in the living room, unable to sleep. Sticky and hot, she thrust back the bedcovers and stared through the blackness at the rafters. Next door, baby Manu was crying. Someone ran past the house, their boots ringing loud on the cobbles. She heard a soft murmuring, the baby stopped crying, and then silence settled over the street. She tugged at the chain round her neck and pulled the cross out of her nightshirt. A gold cross. Gold. Sir Richard had given her a gold one because he held her in high regard.
The heat was stifling. It was an August heat rather than a June heat, and it seemed to rise up like a fog from the port and linger in Hauteville’s narrow alleys. More wind, they needed more wind to carry off the heat. From the bottom of the hill, from Basseville, other sounds drifted in the air: a snatch of a drunken soldier’s ditty, a howl of laughter. Men from Count Remond’s garrison most likely, returning to the barracks after a session in one of the port taverns.
After Mikaela had left, Rozenn had smothered the fire down as much as she dared without putting it out completely. It glowed softly in the hearth, the only light in the room. It gave out too much heat, heat that was not needed tonight, but Rozenn liked warm water to wash in in the morning and it took too long to start a fire from scratch.
Mikaela. Rozenn smiled into the gloom, and as she shifted, the straw in the mattress rustled. Her friend had long been fascinated by the thought that Rozenn’s gold cross had been a gift from Sir Richard and not from her husband. It had been easy to divert her, and then the conversation had moved on, and suddenly the evening had passed and Rozenn still hadn’t told Mikaela of her plans to take her ‘mother’ Ivona to England to find Adam and Sir Richard. Since Rose had been a foundling, and had been put into Ivona’s care nineteen years ago, Ivona was not Rose’s blood-mother any more than Adam was her real brother. But Rose loved them both as family. She was lucky to have them—not all foundlings were treated half so well.
What had been the exact wording of the startling message that Adam had sent her?
While Rose racked her brain to recall the precise words, she drew an image of Adam’s messenger in her mind as, travel-stained and weary, he had caught up with her by the town well…
‘Mistress Rozenn Kerber?’
‘Yes?’
‘Your brother, Sir Adam Wymark,’ the messenger had said, ‘sends loving greetings. He has asked me to inform you that he has important news for you and your mother, Ivona—’
‘What news—he is unhurt?’ she had asked, pleased at this evidence that Adam still considered her his sister.
‘He is perfectly well, mistress. He requests that you and your mother prepare to journey to England later in the year.’
Rozenn had rubbed her forehead. ‘Ivona and I are to leave Brittany! But…but…’
Her mind had whirled, and two thoughts emerged from the maelstrom. The first was that her adoptive mother would be thrown
