An Honorable Rogue (14 page)

The streets were almost empty, save for a few hens and Anton and his cart. This morning he was hauling a wine butt uphill. They nodded as they passed each other.

'Good morning."

'Hola,
Ben.'

Yes, by the time the sun had lifted above the walls of Castle Hellon, Ben intended to have a horse for Rose. Quickly, that was the key word. Quickly. Get her away from Ivona before she was persuaded to stay.

Whistling under his breath, smiling as he approached the Pont du Port. Ben wondered if Morgan, the head groom, had a decent horse to spare.

'This one." Ben said, running a knowing hand down the leg of a black mare with eyes soft as a fawn's. He was closeted in the end stall with Morgan, 'I like the look of her, though she's almost too pretty. You are certain she can go all day carrying a grown woman and her baggage?'

'Provided you don't go at a gallop from dawn till dusk,' Morgan said. 'She's sturdy. Good sire."

'And shod, I take it?" Straw rustled as Ben lifted a hoof to examine it.

'Yes, she'll do you. Count Remond couldn't resist buying her for the Countess, but she wasn't enough of a challenge. Countess Muriel likes a mount with a stronger head on her." With a grin, Morgan made a suggestive gesture. 'This one's far too docile.'

'What's her name?'

'Jet.'

'Jet?' Ben released the mare's foot and folded his arms. 'Jet's a hard name for a soft horse, if indeed that is her true temperament."

Morgan shook his head on a laugh. 'No, Ben, you have her nature pinned. Jet took her name from her colour, nothing more. She has good teeth, is sound of wind and limb, and is certainly biddable enough for Mistress Kerber to learn to ride on. You are looking at a mare with no hidden faults...'

Stepping forwards to stroke Jet's glossy neck. Ben nodded. 'Good. So, as I recall, Count Remond would be happy for you to sell her...'

Morgan grinned. 'Provided the price is right."

'Naturally. So...what is your price?'

The two men haggled amiably over the amount and shook hands to seal the bargain. Money clinked as it passed from one to the other.

'You had better be right about her temperament." Ben said, 'I wouldn't want her taking chunks out of my Piper.'

A gleam entered Morgan's eyes. 'Are you sure it isn't Mistress Kerber you are concerned about, not that mangy gelding?'

'Mangy? You dare call my Piper mangy?"

Morgan shook his head. 'You don't fool me. When do you leave?'

'Tomorrow, the next day?' Ben shrugged.

'As soon as you can get away, eh?" Raising a brow. Morgan made another suggestive gesture.

Ben ignored it. A little ribbing was inescapable when someone had known you on and off for years, as Morgan had known him. And in any case, the man was right. He did want to bustle Rose out of here, though not for the reasons that Morgan supposed. He would cajole her on to Jet's back as soon as he might, and they would have Quimperle behind them before Rose could so much as blink. But Ben's cheeks were warm as he jerked his head in the direction of the tackroom. 'I don't suppose you have any saddles going begging?'

It was two days before Ben succeeded in getting Rose mounted and then that was only when they were about to leave. She sat astride Jet, fingers white on the saddle Ben had cajoled out of Morgan, biting her lips and staring anxiously at the cobbles. Her skirts were hiked up almost to her thighs, but, seeing the tension in her face, Ben thought it best not to draw her attention to this.

He stood at her knee by the mounting block in the castle courtyard, holding Jet's reins, positioning Rose's legs. 'Like this, little flower.' His fingers seemed to develop a disconcerting tendency to linger. Hastily, he stepped back, trying to radiate confidence.

'B-Ben?'

'Mmm?'

'The ground seems awfully far away, and...and it looks very hard. I... I don't think I like this."

'You'll be fine," Ben said, praying he was right. Nodding his thanks at Morgan, he relieved him of Piper's reins and swung into the saddle himself. He took a moment to adjust the shortsword belted at his waist. As a minstrel, Ben had not earned the right to bear full knightly arms, but when on the Duke's business he never travelled without his shortsword.

' You... You were in the right. I should have made time for riding lessons,' Rose acknowledged, in a small voice.

'Perhaps, but you've hardly slept these last few days.'

And that was no less than the truth, Rozenn had flung herself into such a frenzy of activity that Ben had hardly seen her. Countess Muriel had insisted that her daylight hours should be spent bent over the wall-hanging, and the rest of the time Rose had been taking her leave of every last acquaintance in both town and castle. There had not been a second in these past two days for her to even look at Jet, never mind have riding lessons.

Ben had a suspicion that Rose had kept herself busy deliberately, so that she would not have to think too much about the life that she was leaving behind.

'You're a quick learner,' he added. 'You will pick it up as we go.'

A farewell party had gathered on the steps of the keep. Ivona. Countess Muriel. Lady Alis...

Not long now, but this was the moment Ben had been dreading. Were there going to be tears? Probably. Would she change her mind, when actually faced with saying goodbye to everyone and everything she had ever known?
No, Ben.
He could hear her voice in his head, as though she were actually speaking.
How could you possibly think I would really leave ? I never meant a word of it...

Anton appeared under the market arch with Mikaela at his side and a couple of girls whose names escaped him. Denez was there too, Stefan, Jafrez... All her friends had come to wave her off. Not Mark Quemeneur, thank God. The wretched merchant had had the gall to turn up at her house at dawn with a posy of mallows and marigolds and a length of the finest silk. Light as a cobweb, the fabric had an iridescent sheen to it and was fit for the Duchess. Rose's eyes had lit up when she had seen it, and she had kissed the man--but only on the cheek, Ben had noted--before tucking the silk into her saddlebag, alongside a bundle Ivona had insisted she carried to Adam. One of Quemeneur's mallows was even now tucked into Rose's girdle, a discordant splotch of purple against the blue of her gown, and one of the marigolds was nestling in the opening at her neckline. Ben was looking at the flowers, when he realised she was watching him.

'Ben? Is something the matter?"

'Not at all, but we will have to get you some gloves as soon as we may."

'But I told you, it's too hot to wear gloves, just as it's too hot to wear a cloak."

The merchant's blasted marigold was drawing his attention to the bosom of her gown, to the tantalising curve of her breasts. With difficulty, he dragged his gaze away. As I explained, you would be wearing them to
protect
your hands, not keep you warm.'

Jet champed on her bit and sidled. Rose squeaked.

'Loosen the reins a little,
cherie.'
Ben sent her a comforting smile. Rose was definitely not a natural horsewoman. The reins were wrapped tight as tourniquets round her fists and she was clinging to that saddle as though her life depended on it... Still, they had time.

Intercepting his glance, she grimaced. 'Placid, you swore Jet was placid?'

Ben nodded and gave Morgan a pleading look. 'So I am told, but your reins are far too short. Hold them like this.'

Morgan adjusted the length of her reins and her grip. 'Jet's as calm as they come. Like this, Mistress Kerber, you don't want to damage her mouth.'

'Oh. Sorry.'

'Ben, you might need this,' Morgan murmured, holding out a neat coil of leather. His lips quirked upwards. 'No charge, call it a parting gift.'

'My thanks." A leading rein. Grinning, Ben showed it to Rose. 'I think Morgan is in the right, until you become accustomed."

'Y-yes, please, just for today.'

Leaning towards her, Ben clipped one end of the leading rein to the ring by Jet's bit and kept a firm hold of the other. 'Ready?'

'Lead on."

Thus it was that they clopped out of the castle courtyard, towards the group of friends in the market gate.

'Farewell. Rose!'

'Farewell!'

'Bon chance!'

There was no sign of Mark Quemeneur. One of the mallows fell from her girdle to be crushed under one of Jet's hind hoofs. 'Relax your hands on the reins,' Ben said, biting back a smile. 'Try and let go of that saddle.'

'I'll fall!'

'No, you won't, you have stirrups. And use your thighs. That's better.' Perhaps it was no bad thing that there had been no time for riding lessons. Rose was so busy concentrating on staying seated and on the unaccustomed motion of the horse, she would have no energy to spare for tears. At least so he hoped.

Ivona and the Countess remained on the steps of the keep. A veil fluttered. Countess Muriel gave a cursory wave and whisked back inside. Ivona lifted one hand and wiped her eyes with the other. Her voice carried across the yard. 'Keep her safe, Benedict."

Raising a hand himself in acknowledgement. Ben dug his heels into Piper's brown flanks and led Rose out of the castle precincts. Her face was set, she was staring at the back of Jet's head, and her mouth was a thin line. The hands holding fast to both reins and saddle were now bone-white. There were no actual tears, though--just a pale, set face as everything Rose had even known fell back behind them.

The horses walked--a trot was probably too much of a distraction--through Market Square and past Ste Croix. Several workmen were winding a hoist to position one of the great blocks of stone that had been unloaded on the docks a few days earlier. A dove fluttered past, heading for the dovecote in the castle garth.

Rose spared the dove a nervous glance and resumed her study of Jet's ears. In this way they reached the easternmost bridge and the road to Vannes. Ahead of them was the forest, several days of it, if they kept on at this pace.

She twisted carefully in the saddle and peered over her shoulder as the walled island of Basseville and the castle and her old life shrank to nothing.

'Ben?'

'Little flower?'

'Which way did you say we were going?'

Good, she was distracting herself, there would be no flood of tears. At this realisation, a knot of tension in Ben's stomach that he had been unaware he was carrying untied itself and fell away. 'We follow the road to Vannes as far as the Hennebont crossroads. From there we go to Josselin and thence to Rennes."

The track was wide enough for them to ride side by side. Ben shortened the leading rein and drew close. Their knees nudged.

'Ben, is Rennes
en route
to the sea?'

'Not directly, but from there a road runs to the north coast which will mean a shorter voyage."

'Oh.'

'Duke Hoel has made Rennes his headquarters.' Ben went on. 'It has a mint and is counted the capital of Brittany. I thought you would like to see it.' He could not. of course, give Rose the whole truth. Abbot Benoit had given Ben a letter, and had asked him to forward it to the Duke in Rennes. He could say nothing of this. It was true, however, that Rennes was larger and more cosmopolitan than Quimperle, and Rose would be interested in seeing it.

'How long will it take us to get there?" she asked, her voice light.

Ben wasn't fooled; her tone was brittle, she was teetering on the edge of tears. 'We. ..ell, considering you do insist on riding at a snail's pace, I should think it will take us at least a month.'

'A month!' White teeth worried at her lower lip. 'Surely not?'

'It is over a hundred miles. If I were on my own, I could make it in two or three days at an easy pace, but with extra baggage...' Grinning, he let his voice trail off.

Her chin lifted. 'This
extra baggage
will try not to slow you down too much. By the end of the day I should be able to go much faster."

By the end of the day. Ben thought to himself, you will be as stiff as a board. Aloud he said, 'Glad to hear it."

'Ben?'

'Mmm?'

She was looking at the forest that was encroaching the town boundaries. 'Is it wooded all the way to Rennes?'

'Pretty much." He lowered his voice dramatically, as if he were coming to the heart of one of his epics in some lord's great hall. 'It is the haunt of great wizards like Merlin.'

Her lips curved, and Ben found himself staring. Rose did have a fascinating mouth. Lord, he should never have kissed her, he was fast becoming obsessed with the thought of kissing her again.

'And witches?' She raised a brow.

'Indeed. One of the greatest witches of all time lives in one of these forests. Her name is Vivienne and she--'

'Ben. I'm all right. I
want
to go to England. I don't need a fairy tale to distract me.' A dark brown curl had escaped her veil. Briefly, she released her grip on Jet's reins long enough to tuck it behind her ear.

'No?'

'No.'

This was the point when the road to Vannes narrowed and became more of a trackway--its surface was no longer cobbled, but simply beaten earth covered in beech mast. The sound of Piper and Jet's hoofbeats changed from a sharp clopping to a muffled drumming. Ben began to relax, to really relax. Finally, they were underway. He would have the pleasure of Rose's company until they reached Adam in Wessex. And she--he did not pause to examine why this thought pleased him so much--she, having never travelled out of Quimperle in her life, would be dependent on him for the whole journey.

The trees loomed closer, shading them with luxuriant green canopies. Beech, oak, hornbeam...

'I am sad to leave, of course," she murmured.

'You are not afraid?'

She shook her head. 'Not when I am with you.'

And there it was again. Guilt. How would Rose react when she learned that she had been manipulated into making this journey? Heaven help him.

'These roads are strange to me." she went on, oblivious of the effect her words had on him. 'But you have travelled roads like this very often.'

'So I have.' Ben stared into the shadows under the trees. He had not travelled these roads simply in his capacity as a minstrel, but Rose knew nothing of that. In the past he had often carried letters from the old Duke to the Abbot at Ste Croix. The letter he was now carrying to the new Duke was tucked away in his tunic, for Abbot Benoit had in the end proved to be of more use than Lady Alis. His lips twitched. A case of the confessional winning out over the gentle art of dalliance? But since Abbot Benoit was a blood relation to Duke Hoel, and Lady Alis was young and untried, he had not been truly surprised that the Abbot had been better informed.