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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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.