about the shop, but other than that the house was silent. In the living room, the bread on the table had been cut, one of the apples had gone, and the goat’s cheese had been covered with a cloth. Flipping back the cloth, she smiled. He’d left her half. And Per’s key was no longer there.
One of Ben’s packs sat neatly on the pallet; there was no sign of his lute.
She huffed out a breath. Where might he have gone? He might be visiting old friends in the White Bird, but he could just as easily be in one of the dockside taverns. Or he might be singing in the market square, or playing dice in Count Remond’s guardhouse; he might even be watching the hawks in the mews—he was fascinated by their speed and strength and ferocity. Resolving to walk back via the market square and the guardhouse, Rozenn left her house and locked up.
Benedict Silvester was a will-o’-the-wisp. It was entirely possible that she might not run him to earth at all. Countess Muriel and her ladies might have to entertain themselves.
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