An Honourable Rogue. Carol Townend

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      As the story unfolded Rozenn held the image of Sir Richard in the forefront of her mind. The last time she had seen Sir Richard he had been riding out of Quimperlé at her brother’s side. Two knights, one Norman and born to his station, with lands and a proud ancestry, and the other but newly knighted and with not one acre to his name. How kind Sir Richard was to have given me a gold cross. How kind he was, Rozenn thought, deliberately blocking out the beguiling sound of Ben’s voice, to befriend Adam when he had been but an eager squire. Not many knights would bother with the son of a lowly horse- master. Firmly, she squashed the urge to turn to see if Ben was returning that idiotic smile Lady Josefa was sending his way.

      Where was she? Ah, yes, how kind of Sir Richard to have sponsored Adam, to have seen him knighted. Yes, she had chosen a kind man, an honourable man. When Sir Richard and Adam had ridden out in response to William of Normandy’s call to arms, they had looked so fine. She had been proud of her brother. And of Sir Richard, naturally. Rozenn frowned. But the colour of his eyes? Brown, surely, like Ben’s?

      She wriggled on her stool and again the legs screeched on the floorboards. Countess Muriel glared.

      Sir Richard was taller than Ben, much broader, larger all over. Big hands. She had noticed that particularly, on the day he had challenged Ben to a lute-playing contest. The size of his large, battle-scarred fingers—her lips curved in a smile—Sir Richard could never hope to match Ben on a lute. But he had done astonishingly well, considering.

      She sighed. Ben was… No—Sir Richard. It was Sir Richard she was thinking about, not Ben. Sir Richard was taller, very handsome with his brown hair and his broad shoulders. A man indeed.

      Sneaking a sidelong glance under her lashes at Ben, Rozenn felt again that unsettling tremble in her belly. Ben was not as tall as Sir Richard, but he was, she had to confess, perfectly proportioned—strong shoulders, narrow waist, as ever accentuated by a wide leather belt. Ben knew how to make the best of himself, that green tunic matched those tiny flecks in his eyes exactly.

      Needle suspended over her work, Rozenn did not notice that it had been some moments since she had set a stitch.

      But Ben did. He intercepted her gaze and a dark eyebrow quirked upwards.

      Hastily, Rozenn focused on the canvas, damping down that irritating flutter of awareness that only he could elicit. Even her idol, even Sir Richard never had that effect on her. Thank goodness. It was far too discomfiting.

      She, Rozenn Kerber, would marry Sir Richard, on that she was determined. She was going to be a lady. One day she would have a solar of her own, and other women would join her there to work on the tapestries and wall- hangings that would decorate her hall. Perhaps, like Countess Muriel, she would hire a lute-player, maybe even Benedict Silvester himself if he was lucky, to entertain them while they sewed.

      Chapter Four

      That afternoon, Mikaela came to the Isle du Château to ask for Rozenn’s company. As was her custom when entering the castle precincts, she was wearing her veil. She came directly to the solar, where the Countess, having tired of sewing, was happy to wave Rozenn away.

      It was a Friday, a fish day, and every Friday since Per’s death, Rozenn had got into the habit of accompanying Mikaela to the fish market, which was held in Basseville on the quayside. There she would help her friend choose fish for the tavern and load them on Anton’s cart. In return for her assistance, Mikaela usually sent Rozenn a portion of whatever dish resulted such as baked cod, or mussels in wine.

      Leaving the keep, the girls walked through sunlit streets towards the Pont du Port. Count Remond’s guards stood sentry at the gateway that led from the castle to the quays. Ben was with them, hip propped against the wooden rail of the bridge, dark hair ruffled by the breeze. He was apparently deep in conversation with Denez, the guards’ captain. Rozenn thought she heard her name mentioned, but at that moment Ben noticed her and turned her name into a greeting so smoothly, she wondered if she had imagined it.

      ‘Mistress Kerber!’ Ben’s brown eyes were laughing as he straightened and swept her a bow worthy of a duchess. ‘Good afternoon to you. And Mademoiselle Bréhat.’

      ‘Holà, Ben.’ Mikaela smiled. ‘Distracting the sentries from their duties?’

      ‘Naturally.’ Ben resumed his position propped against the handrail. His lips drew Rozenn’s gaze, and, as she looked, they twitched upwards. Colouring, she met his glance, gave her head a slight shake, and made to step past him. Had he been talking about her? She must be mistaken—why would Ben have been talking to Denez about her?

      Ben put out a hand. ‘Want to earn a couple of deniers, Rozenn? Mikaela?’

      ‘How so?’

      ‘I propose a race—swimming versus running.’

      Rozenn gave Ben a level look. She couldn’t swim— all her life she had been terrified of water—but Ben swam like a fish. He was pointing to where the jetty in the marshes was sited, lost in the tall reeds on the east bank.

      ‘I reckon I can swim to the jetty and back in the time it takes Jerome here to run to and from St Michael’s in Hauteville.’

      Captain Denez snorted. ‘You take us for fools, Silvester, but we know you of old. You’d cheat, and since we can’t exactly see the jetty from here, what’s to say you never actually reach it?’

      ‘Me? Cheat?’ Ben puffed out his chest and affected to look affronted, but Rozenn knew he was no such thing. He was teasing Count Remond’s troopers, enjoying it almost as much as they were. ‘As if I would…’ He winked at Mikaela, who flushed prettily and gave a little trill of a laugh. ‘But in case you are worried, I have an idea. One of your men can run round to the marshes and wait for me on the jetty. Jafrez, be my witness?’

      Denez rubbed his chin. ‘You have to actually touch the jetty, mind.’

      Mikaela stirred. ‘I set some eel traps by the jetty,’ she said thoughtfully.

      Ben gave Mikaela a soft smile. ‘You wouldn’t want to check them, would you, chérie? Then you could be my witness since these disbelieving oafs won’t accept my word. They will accept yours, won’t you, Denez?’

      ‘Aye.’

      ‘I thought we were going to the fish market,’ Rozenn put in, her voice sounding more disgruntled than she had intended.

      Mikaela shrugged. ‘Eel counts as fish, you know that. If caught some, I could smoke them or make a pie.’ To Rozenn’s dismay, Mikaela slanted Ben just the sort of look that Rozenn would have expected Lady Alis FitzHubert to give him. It startled her coming from her friend.

      She tamped down a flare of anger. It was one thing for Ben to flirt with Lady Alis who ought to know better, but quite another to flirt with Mikaela. He should not encourage her in this way. Mikaela was very young and she might not realise that Ben’s smiles were just another of the tools of his trade, they did not necessarily mean anything. She hoped Mikaela was not taken in.

      Mikaela was smiling happily up at him. ‘We’ll go— we’ll witness you reach the jetty, won’t we, Rozenn?’

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