The Stone Rose

The Herevi Sagas

Book One

Carol Townend

http://caroltownend.co.uk

Copyright ©2013 by Carol Townend

(First Edition published in 1992 by Headline Book Publishing)

All rights reserved

Published by Carol Townend 2013

ISBN: 978-1-78301-292-3

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All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Description

Family Tree

Part One – The Concubine’s Daughter

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Two – Champions and Heroes

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part Three – Demons and Devils

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Books by Carol Townend

Description

THE FIRST BOOK IN A PASSIONATE AND POIGNANT ACCOUNT OF A FAMILY FEUD IN TWELFTH CENTURY BRITTANY. LOVE AND INNOCENCE TRIUMPH OVER HATRED AND CYNICISM.

Young Gwenn Herevi, the illegitimate daughter of a knight and his concubine, is innocence itself. Then she finds herself caught up in a bitter and bloody feud. Her father, Sir Jean St Clair, and her uncle, Count François de Roncier, have been fighting over the family lands for years.

When de Roncier attacks Gwenn’s house in Vannes, hoping to drive the Herevis out, Gwenn is forced to grow up quickly. She finds herself beholden to two most unlikely heroes – mercenaries sworn to her uncle. Captain Alan le Bret and his cousin Ned Fletcher have come to Brittany from England to make their fortunes, but they cannot stomach de Roncier’s methods and from that moment Gwenn’s life is bound to both men.

A lovingly detailed picture of life in the twelfth century.

Family Tree

Part One

The Concubine’s Daughter

A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse;

A spring shut up, a fountain sealed.

Song of Solomon 4:12

Chapter One

Lady Day, Spring 1183. The Port of Vannes, South Brittany.

The nightmare began on the day thirteen-year old Gwenn Herevi disobeyed her grandmother. It was the first day of the New Year and she was going out unaccompanied to listen to the preaching of the Black Monk at the Cathedral.

The moment Gwenn stepped over the threshold, a dirty bundle of rags hunched against the weathered boarding of another wooden dwelling opposite, shifted and took on the solid shape of a man. The man’s name was Conan, and he was a pedlar when nothing more lucrative offered itself. Today, although he carried his huckster’s tray, he was not peddling. He was spying on the Herevi household on behalf of no less a person than Count François de Roncier. He had been paid to inform the Count’s mercenary captain when one of the Herevi women next went out on their own, and his wares were his cover.

Conan adjusted the leather strap which held his tray of goods in place, small eyes peering past bushy brows. Conan was not usually a man to be troubled by conscience, but the girl’s appearance had caught him off-guard. Seen across the narrow street, at such close quarters, she looked fresh and innocent – too fresh and innocent to be a concubine’s daughter. She was tiny, a dainty creature with delicate bones. Her long gown matched Conan’s expectations; it was of a rich blue fabric and girdled with a plaited silk belt, both in mint condition. But her face was all wrong. It did not match the sumptuous, decadent clothes.

The girl was not wearing a veil and a glossy, nut-brown rope of hair hung over one shoulder as far as her waist. She had a veil with her, but she had scrunched the blue cloth up with scant regard for its delicate quality and had stuffed it into her belt. Conan watched as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. He crept furtively out of the shadows cast by the noonday sun, and into the narrow street. So St Clair’s bastard was abroad without that watchdog of a grandmother, was she? That was most unusual.

The spring sunlight made the girl blink. Conan saw her glance back at the closed shutters and, for a moment or two, the clear light played over dusky, childish features which were as easy to read as the finest illuminated manuscript. The girl’s brown eyes were warm and alive, shining with a mixture of excitement and anticipation. The pedlar watched her closely. Captain le Bret must be told the girl was out and about, though Conan would rather it had been her grandmother...

‘Hell,’ Conan muttered. His tray was heavy, the straps were cutting through to his bones. With a grimace he flexed his shoulder muscles. She had no right to look so young. How odd that the daughter of Yolande Herevi, the town’s most notorious concubine, and Sir Jean St Clair should have the face of a babe. Surprised to recognise the stirring inside him as pity, Conan squashed it ruthlessly. Pity would not give him his fee. He should leave thinking to the clerics. Pain stabbed in his guts. All he ever gained from thinking was indigestion.

Letting out a belch, Conan slid a grimy hand behind his tray and massaged his belly. The ache persisted. Perhaps he had drunk a drop too much last eve – that new wine must have unsettled him. He lifted his thick brows and his sharp huckster’s eyes gleamed. At least he could do something about that, Mikael’s imported burgundy cured most ailments. He would reward himself with a liberal dose.

Firmly resolved to wash all thoughts from his head, and bad wine from his system, Conan straightened his shoulders and trailed after her. Best to obey orders, however indigestible. It was not for him to judge. He was being paid to keep the mercenary captain informed when the next woman left that house on her own, nothing more. How Captain le Bret and his lord chose to use that information was no business of his.

***

Inside the Herevi house, in the simply furnished bedchamber that Gwenn shared with her grandmother, that elderly lady had woken from her mid-morning nap. Izabel Herevi was wide awake and spoiling for an argument with her daughter, Yolande. Neither women realised that Gwenn had slipped out and was currently scurrying to St Peter’s with a dark shadow at her heels.

‘Have you no shame, Yolande?’ the older woman demanded, in the fluent French which betrayed her noble Breton blood. She flung her hairbrush onto her polished oak coffer with a clatter, and sank onto the stool in front of the mirror. Yolande was standing directly behind her. Izabel sent a look of calculated entreaty at her daughter’s reflection which hung beside hers in the silvered glass. A treasured wedding gift from her long-dead husband, the costly leaded mirror with its scrolled and gilded frame was worthy of a princess; and it sat oddly in this plain cell of a bedchamber. ‘Keep it from your girl. Gwenn has no need to know – knowing what respectable people think of you can only hurt her. Keep it from her as long as you can. Have you no sense?’