An Honorable Rogue (10 page)

Reaching her site in the market-place--they were early and there was hardly a soul in the square--Rozenn began heaving cloth on to the trestle.

'My thanks, Anton."

'My pleasure.' Anton helped her offload the rest of the stock. 'Will that be all, mistress?'

'Monsieur Quemeneur wants you?'

'Aye. I'm carting for him next."

'You may go.' Noticing the expectant light in his eyes. Rozenn bit her lip. 'Oh. Anton, my apologies, I shall be needing my small change. Would it be all right if I pay you at the end of the day?'

Briefly, Anton touched her arm. 'Pay me whenever you like, I trust you. Mistress Rozenn.'

Her eyes misted. 'You cheer me up, Anton.'

Grasping the cart handles. Anton trudged back towards the keep and the Pont du Port.

The church bells continued to ring. A couple of other stallholders arrived to set up shop, and an arrow of white light--a seagull--flashed by and landed clumsily where the butcher's stall would shortly be.

A small procession was winding down the steps of the keep, with Countess Muriel at its head. The Countess was followed by a handful of her ladies, their long skirts rich with the bright colours that only the wealthy could afford: fine linens dyed madder red in Paris, purple silks and satins from the east. They were heading towards Ste Croix to join the monks in prayer.

A soft giggle had Rozenn's eyebrows snapping together. A glimpse of blonde hair escaping a veil that was light as gossamer produced a clenching in her stomach. Lady Alis was among the ladies.

Two strange men brought up the rear--no, not strangers exactly, for hadn't Rozenn seen one of them yesterday in the bailey? That mop of red hair, unusually long, that nose, sharp as a blade... Yes, she had seen him before.

Rozenn was about to turn back to her stall when one last figure came down the steps of the keep and into the square; a dark-featured, handsome young man whose fine green tunic fit his wide shoulders to perfection, and whose silver buckle flashed in the sun. Her heart stuttered. Ben!

Another feminine laugh floated out through the great doors of the abbey. Deliberately pitched to carry back towards the keep?

Rozenn clenched her teeth as with sickening predictability Ben's head turned in the direction of the laughter. He frowned, and then he too was striding towards the Abbey.

Ben? Attending matins with the Countess and her ladies?

A lump formed in Rozenn's throat.

Ben and Alis. So. No need to worry whether Ben had spent an uncomfortable night in some dank corner of the Great Hall. No need to worry whether the kiss on the jetty had meant Rose's relationship with Ben was in danger of changing. She had been forgetting--this was Benedict Silvester, the man with ties to no one and nothing. Save to his music, of course. Ben would wander off again soon, as he always did, and Lady Alis would be left behind to weep. She could almost find it in her heart to be sorry for Alis FitzHubert. Almost. Wasn't the girl meant to be betrothed to some knight?

Turning away from the sight of Ben taking the Abbey steps two at a time, Rozenn stared at her stall and forced herself to consider how best to display the cloth. The striped Byzantine silk should go at the front. The red velvet on the left, while, on the right, the green damask. It was a struggle and her heart ached, but she made herself continue. The plain linens could be ranged behind; and the satin ribbons...

Market Square gradually filled with people and customers, but Rose was not too busy to miss Countess Muriel emerging from Ste Croix with her entourage. Nor did she miss Alis FitzHubert and the red-haired stranger. And Ben? Not that she was watching for him--she just happened to be looking at the workmen swarming up the scaffolding as they started their morning's work. Like Ben, they had a breathtaking sense of balance.

'Excuse me, mistress." A woman at her elbow cleared her throat. 'How much for a dress length of that blue linen?'

Rozenn tore her gaze from the Abbey doorway--still no sign of Ben--and forced a smile. 'You have a good eye, mistress, that's the finest linen in town.'

She and the customer were haggling over the price when Ben sauntered out of the Abbey in the company of Abbot Benoit. Ben? In the company of the Abbot?

'But you'll give me a discount?" the woman said, drawing her gaze, 'If I ask my husband to drop off some lamb cutlets at your doorstep tomorrow morning? And this is not mutton, mind, but new season's lamb...'

Rozenn unhooked the shears at her belt. 'Agreed.' The shears crunched through the cloth; she folded it carefully, put the money in her pouch and looked up. 'Who's next?"

For the next few minutes--it could have been longer-- she was almost overwhelmed by the rush. Word had apparently got around that there were bargains to be had at Widow Kerber's stall.

Countess Muriel bought the entire length of striped green-and-gold silk. Her mother, Ivona. bought a fine cream lawn to make a summer veil. Even Lady Alis bought from her--several ribbons 'to make a headdress'--and from Lady Alis Rozenn was startled to receive a shy smile as the money, a couple of silver coins, was pressed into her hand. Lady Josefa bought some English braid for a man's leg bindings. In short, trade was brisk, very brisk.

Rozenn's heart began to lift. With luck, today would see the last of Per's stock sold off and his debts paid.

The sun climbed and the shadows shrank. Rozenn's stall began to look a little depleted, but she remained busy. When the angelus bell tolled, it set the pigeons fluttering from their perches. Noon already? Rozenn wriggled her shoulders, clipped her shears back on to her belt and surveyed her stall. There was not much left, which was pleasing, since experience had taught her that most sales were to be made in the morning.

Rootling through what remained. Rose refolded the cloth and straightened the odd bale. She wondered if she should lower her prices. No, not yet, some of it was too good to reduce further; she would wait until later in the day.

Countess Muriel and her ladies, having scoured every stall in the market, were making their way back to the keep.

'Rozenn?'

She gave a start. Mark Quemeneur stood beside her, his grey eyes regarding her gravely.

'Good morning, monsieur. I didn't see you.'

'You are in good health, I trust?" Mark asked in his slow, formal way. Mark Quemeneur was about ten years Rozenn's senior, and he was a trifle stout. His wife, before she had died bearing their fifth child, had liked to keep a generous table.

'My thanks, I am well. And you?'

While she exchanged greetings and comments with Mark on the success of the market so far, Rozenn caught sight of Ben threading his way through the stalls, slowly but surely heading towards her. Her heart began to thud.

'Did you get top prices as you had hoped?" Mark-- always the merchant--asked.

'Indeed.'

Mark shifted closer, absently fingering a remnant of velvet that was too small to make even a short cloak. Sweat was beading his upper lip. Clearing his throat, he flushed. 'Enough to...ah...solve the problems Per left you with, perhaps?'

Mark's grey eyes fixed earnestly on Rozenn's. He was asking her this, she was sure, because if she could not settle Per's debts then he thought to persuade her to let him have her leftovers at a knock-down price.

'Remember my offer,' Mark Quemeneur continued, patting his bulging money belt, 'If you do find yourself short and unable to settle, it would not be a problem for a girl who had agreed to become my wife.'

Her gut twisted. 'Y-your wife?'

Naturally, Ben would have to draw level with her stall at that very moment. His hair gleamed dark as a raven's wing. One of his eyebrows shot sharply upwards, his lips twitched, but he drifted on, tugging at an earlobe while apparently intent on a piglet tethered to a post by the butcher's stall. Rozenn bit her lip. By tugging his earlobe as he had done, Ben was letting her know that he was eavesdropping on her conversation with Mark. It was an old signal from a game they had played as children.

Rose's mind was reeling at a second unexpected proposal, but she was thankful Ben was close. The tension in her gut eased and she produced a smile for Mark because the man was offering her marriage, even if, in the wording of his offer, he had made it sound as if he was hoping to buy her by way of paying off Per's debts. It would be convenient for Mark if she were to accept him. He would have a mother for his five children; he would have a housekeeper and cook, and a partner to assist him with his business. Mark would make a reliable husband. Unlike Per, Mark Quemeneur
always
settled his debts. He might overeat on occasion, but he never drank to excess. She need no longer be alone. How convenient. How sensible. How ghastly. Thank God, Sir Richard had offered for her...

'Monsieur, I... I thank you, but I have sold all I need. This day's work will see me setting the tallies straight, every last one. Your offer is kind, but I must refuse it.'

For a moment, emotion glimmered at the back of the grey eyes. Disappointment? No. Mark Quemeneur was a merchant to his core--he did not love her.

He inclined his head, formal as ever. 'I am sorry I cannot be of service to you in that way,
madame,
for I truly hold you in high regard.'

And then Mark Quemeneur shocked her--he looked at her lips. Slowly and deliberately, with such blatant sensuality that the hot colour surged in her cheeks. Jaw tight, Rozenn fought down a cowardly impulse to rush to Ben and grab his hand. She held her ground, but barely.

The grey eyes lifted.
'Ma chere,
you will not reconsider?'

'I...I...
No!
That is...' Her voice was too high; desperately she moderated her tone. She did not want to offend the man. but the thought of kissing him--it would be Per all over again. Praying he had not seen her revulsion, she waved vaguely at the remaining cloth on her stall. 'I--I thank you,
monsieur,
but I am not certain we would suit."

'No?'

Again his eyes were on her lips.

Breath tight in her chest, she repressed a shudder. 'No.'

He stepped away from the stall. 'You need time to consider. I understand. Even a widow like you, encumbered by her husband's debts--'

'The debts will be paid off. I told you!"

The cloth merchant nodded, but his gaze was on the contents of her stall. 'You need time," he repeated softly, before reverting to his more familiar, businesslike voice. 'Rozenn?'

'Yes?'

'If you want rid of these offcuts, I'll take them off your hands.'

'Offcuts? Those are good pieces!'

With a tight smile, Mark Quemeneur shook his head. 'Remnants all, but I'll take them if you find you need an extra denier or two.' Bowing, he turned and walked away.

Rozenn glared after him. She was shaking from head to foot.

'Hello, little flower.'

Ben's brown eyes were warm and very welcome. Hauling in a breath, Rozenn had to steel herself not to throw herself into his arms. 'Oh, Ben."

Rose's bosom was heaving with indignation and red flags were flying in her cheeks. No dimples. Ben smiled at her, and pressed a chaste kiss to her temple. The elusive fragrance of jasmine tangled with his senses. Surreptitiously inhaling, he draped a casual arm around her shoulders. She was glaring after Mark Quemeneur.

'Careful,
ma belle,
you can fell men with such looks.'

'I don't like him,' she said, glancing briefly up at him. 'I never have, but I never realised it until today.'

Ben shrugged. 'The poor man is desperate to have you in his bed--is that so great a sin?' Briefly he caught a glimpse of a dimple. Her anger was leaving her.

'It is when it is him."

'You refused him?"

'Of course I did! Did you hear the way he asked me? As though I'm an object and he's bartering for me, as though I can be
bought!'

Realising that he was stroking her neck in a soothing manner, and remembering his decision to keep his distance. Ben released her and rested his shoulder on a post at the corner of the stall. 'You still surprise me. Rose. Even after all this time. I thought I knew you."

She wrinkled her nose, 'I surprise you?'

Why was it he had only just noticed how long her eyelashes were? And why was it that every time he looked at her he suddenly wanted to kiss her? It had not always been like that. Ben was conscious of those melting brown eyes on him while she waited for his reply, and all he could think was that he was glad that he had got in one tiny kiss without her noticing, while she was fuming at Mark Quemeneur.

He sucked in a breath. 'You didn't like his proposal.'

'No.'

'It was too...?'

'Mercenary, like horse-trading.'

Ben narrowed his eyes. 'Many marriages are made that way. You've heard the stories, rich lord weds ugly daughter to ambitious young knight.'

Her eyes became stormy. 'You had better not be telling me I am ugly..."

Ben threw his head back and laughed. 'Don't fish, Rose. It is unbecoming, and besides, you are wilfully twisting my meaning. All I am saying is that many marriages are made after a little horse-trading has gone on. It is the way of the world."

She glowered as fiercely as one of the gargoyles adorning Abbot Benoit's half-built church.

He held out his hand. 'Come on, Rose, you will frighten the sun away if you look like that.'

'I'm upset.'

'So I see.'

With a sigh, she picked up a stray length of cream ribbon and began weaving it in and out of her fingers.

'Your own marriage was carefully planned, was it not?' Ben went on. 'Did Per not fight off other suitors in his negotiations with Adam for your hand?"

Rozenn swallowed and, with a jolt, Ben saw that her face was a picture of distress. 'L-leave my marriage out of this, if you please.'

He tilted his head to one side, aware he was moving on to dangerous ground. Though they had indeed been friends for years--the closest of friends at one time or so he had assumed--the matter of her choosing to marry Per seemed to be the one subject that was out of bounds; he had yet to get her to discuss it.