An Honorable Rogue (29 page)

Blinking away a foolish tear, Rose drew in a lungful of salt-laden air and shivered. Soon she would see Sir Richard. Soon. The wind was cool on her cheeks. The ropes groaned. Behind her the sailors were lowering the sail, she could hear them shouting. Pulleys creaked, canvas flapped. In a very short time they would be making landfall--had she not seen the land for herself, she would have known it from the sailors' voices. Another voyage safely over, those voices said; tonight we will have a proper meal in front of a roaring fire.

If only the nausea would leave her.

''Hola,
little flower,' Ben said, and she felt a gentle tug on her plait, as he came to stand beside her. 'Almost there.'

Rendered mute on hearing a hint of the old gentleness in his tone, Rose managed a smile. The seascape blurred.

Ben gave her a sharp look and rested his hand on the rail. He scanned the shoreline, keenly and thoroughly. The gentleness gone in a moment. A lion on the hunt.

Their elbows touched and Ben shifted, an imperceptible movement, but enough to put space between them. Since coming aboard, he had scarcely looked at her, never mind touched her. Which was why there was no point thinking about him--she was only making matters worse.

'Ben?' Deliberately, testingly,
foolishly,
Rose slid her hand along the rail and found his strong musician's fingers with hers. Again he edged away.

Her stomach clenched. He will not touch me. It is as though we are already apart. That, and the thought of bidding Ben farewell, she realised, was why she felt sick. She was not seasick, and her fear of water had vanished. Neither was she dreading meeting Sir Richard--the truth was she did not want to bid farewell to Ben. The sick feeling inside was warning her that Ben had already bid her farewell--he had done so when he had wrenched himself out of her arms, in that storeroom in Josselin Castle.

'Ben?'

'Mmm?' He turned towards her, hair pushed back by the wind, face lit by the setting sun. Not so far away-- she was close enough to see those tiny green-and-grey flecks in his eyes.

'How long do you think, till we reach Fulford?'

'I am told it is not many miles from the coast.' He gestured at the sun. 'But, given the time of day, and the fact that I do not know the lie of the land, it might be best to find lodgings near the port. We can set out in the morning-- with any luck you should be at Adam's holding by noon.'

'S-so soon?' Rose's stomach lurched. A white butterfly fluttered past them. A butterfly? They were nearing the harbour, Bosham harbour. She forced herself to look.

Black masts were sticking into the evening sky like pins in a pinholder. The Norman battle fleet. Dozen on dozen of ships at anchor--it must be the entire Norman navy. Beyond the fleet, Rose made out a wooden quayside and a harbour wall. A church tower glowed apricot in the evening sun. She saw the slow turning of a mill-wheel with the water running like liquid fire into the sea.

Clouds streaked across the sky, edged with pink and gold like the coverlet she had embroidered for Countess Muriel's daughter. It seemed a lifetime ago. As their ship drew up to the dockside, the sky began to darken, grey turning swiftly to black. One last streak of turquoise slashed violently across the sky; in moments it had darkened to purple.

Dusk was upon them, an English dusk. The rank smell of seaweed caught in her nostrils. Ropes snaked landwards; a man leaped on to the jetty; hawsers were looped round bollards. Too soon. Rose thought, throat tight with tears. We have reached Bosham too soon. Already Ben has left me and, in his mind at least, returned to Brittany.

After they had led the horses down the gangplank, Ben found directions to an inn by making enquiries of two Norman lads who were tossing sticks into the millrace. 'It's probably best to avoid the docks,' he had said, 'if we don't wish to be plagued by sailors.'

It was hard to remember they had made landfall in England, with so many Normans about. Half Duke William's army--no, here in Wessex. Rose must remember he was
King
William, not Duke William as he was known back in Brittany--half King William's army had disgorged itself from the fleet.

They took the road indicated by the boys and rode past the church where the Saxon King Harold had once knelt to pray. The church stood as it had stood for centuries, looking out to sea. The small windows at the top of the tower were like eyes, eyes that must have observed the Norman fleet sail up the channel, eyes that now stared past the shifting masts, to the wider sea beyond. Plain-song was floating out of a studded oak door and past the yew trees in the churchyard. Rozenn shot a glance at Ben. Evensong in England sounded much like evensong in Brittany.

A big stone building lay in ruins by the roadside. The roof had been fired and stripped, charred roof timbers lay every which way. Half the stone walls had gone, but a few courses remained, enough to show the building's original size, otherwise it had been razed to the ground.

Rozenn's skin chilled. This was the first obvious evidence of the recent fighting. From the outline of the walls she judged the building to have been of some importance. Jet picked her way past a scatter of stones that the scavengers had missed. The last rays of sunlight fell on one that was shadowed with fine, deep carvings, fit for a palace.

'Ben?'

'Aye?'

'Harold Godwineson lived in Bosham, I think you said? The man who usurped the English Crown?"

'Aye.'

Rose gave the ruin a final look. It might have been the Saxon royal palace. No more. Duke William, no,
King
William, had brought war to this place along with his navy, and her brother Adam had ridden at his side. Shifting in her saddle, Rose glanced at a Saxon woman with a bundle of kindling strapped to her back. How much brutality had been employed in the conquering of this land? How would the native people regard her, a stranger from Brittany? She was only here because her brother had come in the conqueror's train....

The Buck's Head was pleasant enough. Its common chamber was clean and well appointed, with straw-filled mattresses aplenty, but, notwithstanding this. Rose didn't sleep a wink. All night, her mind kept turning, like the mill-wheel by Bosham church. Her mattress rustled as she shifted and tried to find sleep.

About her, muted conversations went on, in Norman French and in English. One Rose could understand; the other was a mystery. If she was to make her home here, she would learn English. She had arrived in Wessex, but her dreams of marrying a knight, of marrying Sir Richard, lay in tatters. She could not marry him when she pined for... someone else.

Perhaps Adam would offer her a permanent place in his hall instead; perhaps she could make her life with him? She had her skills, a few coins, her trading experience. Maybe Adam's new wife, Lady Cecily, would welcome a seamstress into her household.

Ben was lying in a pool of shadows an arm's length away. Yes, if she were to make her home here, she would learn English. And she would make England her home-- there would be no going back to her old life. But Ben, oh, Ben...

Rozenn's throat constricted. Screwing her eyes shut, blocking out the sight of him. she struggled to hold back the tears. Ben was not for her. In a few days he would take his leave of Fulford. Ben must never know how much their parting cost her. For all his gallant pretence, for all his pretty shows of affection, Ben was not and never would be a marrying man. And love him though she might, she was not the woman to live the wanderer's life. Her love was doomed.

Her breast ached, it ached so much she would surely die of it. Curling her fingers viciously into her cut palm, so the fresh pain would distract her. Rose pressed her fist to her chest and dragged in a breath. No tears, Rose. Not tonight, not tomorrow, and certainly not when Ben bids you farewell. Tears would chain him, they might shackle him to some form of guilt and you must not, you shall not chain him in any way.

Ben is a free spirit.

The next day Ben rose and broke his fast before Rose had stirred. By the time she emerged from behind the sleeping curtain, and came to take her bread from the warming stone on the hearth, a Norman wine merchant had told him the quickest road to Fulford. Rose was wearing her blue gown, one on which she had embroidered a complicated Celtic pattern in white threads at the neck and cuffs. This morning her veil, like the embroidery, was white.

'Good morrow, mistress." the innkeeper's wife said, in a stilted but recognisable version of Norman French. Ben watched as the woman waved Rose in the direction of a couple of platters laid out on one of the trestles. 'Do you care for ham with your bread?'

'No, thank you, but those pears look good.'

Ben took a place beside Rose to keep her company, and watched amused, as she sipped at the mug of local ale she was handed and tried, politely, not to wince. It was a very bitter brew. Rose had, Ben couldn't help but notice, dark circles under her eyes, as if she too had found it hard to rest. 'Only a short ride today--for an experienced horsewoman." he said. 'So your muscles should not suffer too much."

She tossed back her veil. 'Thank you, Ben, but I think I have grown accustomed. I have not had much stiffness since Josselin. You drove us at such a pace...'

Her words trailed off. She sounded, Ben thought, almost wistful. As if she too was regretting that their time together was almost at an end.

Ben was only too aware that they did not have much time left. They had one morning at most; and then there would be the excitement of seeing Adam again, and of meeting his wife, Cecily. And most damnable of all, Sir Richard of Asculf might be at Fulford. Richard knew nothing of Rose's expectations, but as Adam's good friend it was quite possible he was there. Christ. Should he tell her now, or enjoy their last few hours together without...?

'Ben? What's amiss?"

Ben dredged up a smile.
'De rien.
Nothing. But if you have finished playing with that pear, we can be on our way. Fulford awaits.'

Assuming the wine merchant was correct about the route. Ben calculated he would have about three more hours alone with Rose. And then?

Rose
must
be told.

The memory of the roles they had assumed on their journeying through Brittany rushed into his mind to taunt him. Rose had loved it when he had assumed the guise of a knight. Her eyes had shone and her whole body had seemed to melt, as she had surrendered utterly to her fantasy. Yes, no doubt of it. Rose wanted Sir Richard and she would never forgive Ben for deceiving her into making this journey.

About two hours to go. So why the devil was he wasting this time? Ben wondered, staring at Rose's back as she rode ahead of him.

They had followed the coast road before turning inland. With the sea on their left, the downs had risen up on their right and they had had occasional glimpses of great chalk cliffs, rearing up out of nowhere, or so it had seemed. The road had climbed and the land had gradually become wooded with beech and oak. Once the cliffs were left behind, it was not unlike parts of Brittany.

Rose's back was rigid. What was she thinking? Was she noting the similarities of the landscape in this foreign land? Or was she--this seemed more likely--dreaming of her chosen one, her knight?

They had not long left. Ben really ought to be talking to her, but it seemed he was losing his grip. He did not wish to spoil their last moments alone by shattering her illusions.
Merde.
He would have to shatter them soon.

He grimaced; there was a vile taste in his mouth. Christ, but that English ale was filthy, bitter stuff. His stomach was having a hard time digesting it. Guts griping, Ben plodded on, and half an hour later--only about an hour and a half to go, he reckoned--they passed a village with a wooden church.

A river meandered alongside the road. There were cress beds and fishponds and thickets of hazel. Brambles curled in and out of the hedgerows; the green fruits ripening in the warm July air. The sun was shining, the skies were clear, it was a day for knowing happiness, but Ben felt...

The devil was clawing holes in his belly. Rose would loathe the sight of him when she discovered what he had done.

Estimating that it would take them about an hour to reach Fulford, Ben frowned. Surely the angle of the sunlight cutting through the leaves was wrong? He squinted skywards. The sun was shining through the overhanging branches of a beech tree and it seemed far higher than it should. His heart missed a beat, and he looked ahead to see another village, larger than the last. Fulford?
Already?

There was a wooden hall with a wide green space in front of it--a grand wooden hall, with weathered thatch such as might have once belonged to a Saxon thane. Smoke drifted slowly out of the hall roof. A veiled woman sat on a bench outside the hall, spindle in hand, talking to a very small girl. He heard the honking of geese; the clanging of a smith; and the child's bright laughter. There was a mill and a cluster of outbuildings; a church...

Fulford.

Lord, their time was already at an end. Ben sank his heels into Piper's flanks and drew up alongside Jet.

'Are we here?" Rose shot him a sideways look, before swiftly turning away.

'It would appear so." Ben reached out and urged her face back towards his. 'Rose, you've not been crying?' She gave him a lofty look that transported him back to Quimperle and Countess Muriel--the Countess often used just such looks.

'Crying? Heavens, Ben, why should I do that?' She scrubbed her cheek with her sleeve. 'A midge flew into my eye, that is all.'

'I didn't see any midges.'

'Lucky you, I rode through a cloudful."

Ben heard another gurgle of clear, childish laughter and there, tottering towards them on unsteady legs, was the girl from the hall. The woman looked across, dropped her spindle, and ran to scoop the child out from under the horses' hoofs.

Jet snorted. Ben slid from Piper's back and grabbed Rose's bridle.

Bosom heaving, veil aflutter, the woman--she was pregnant. Ben noted--put the girl on her hips and addressed them. In Anglo-Saxon.