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‘Agreed.’
Mikaela turned Rozenn back to face the bailey, for the way to the footpath into the marshes lay back past Ste Croix and off the island via the East Bridge rather than the Pont du Port. As they stepped off the Pont du Port and back into the bailey, Mikaela grinned over her shoulder at Ben. ‘A kiss, remember?’
Ben’s smile was warm. ‘Chérie, how could I forget?’
Rozenn said nothing, nothing at all, but she couldn’t help wondering if Ben was ever serious. A thought which saddened her for no reason that she could point to.
A few minutes later, with the sun on their backs, the girls stepped onto the jetty and looked back towards the Isle du Château. They had hurried all the way, picking up their skirts when they reached the wooden walkway through the marshes. Some of the planks were rotting and the walkway was springy underfoot, but they arrived without mishap, though the hems of their skirts were dark with damp. There was more breeze here in the marshes; it rattled the reeds and tugged at their veils.
‘Look!’ Mikaela pointed, screwing up her eyes.
Some years ago, Rozenn had discovered her friend’s eyes were slightly weak. They were not weak in the same way that Ivona’s eyes were weak, for seeing close to— no, it was distances Mikaela had difficulty with.
‘There they are, on the bridge,’ Mikaela went on, still squinting. ‘Ben’s green tunic shows up really well.’
‘Yes, that’s Ben.’
The guards were clustered around him and his challenger, Jerome.
Mikaela stared towards the castle. ‘What’s happening, Rose?’
‘Ben and Jerome are being spun round—Jerome is being pointed towards the town and Ben—Ben’s… Oh! He’s climbing on to the guardrail, oh, no…’ Rozenn’s voice trailed off as, with a dramatic flourish, Ben gave one of his dramatic bows.
‘What, Rozenn, what?’
Rozenn sighed. ‘He’s playing to the gallery, as usual.’
Mikaela looked a question at her. ‘You sound upset.’
‘Upset? No. I just wish that, for once, Ben didn’t have to be so…so…’
‘Entertaining?’ Mikaela grinned. ‘But that’s what he does, Ben’s an entertainer.’
About to object, Rozenn snapped her mouth shut. Mikaela was absolutely right, Ben was an entertainer, which was why people loved him so. And it wasn’t just women who loved him, she thought, as she recalled the expectant look in the guards’ eyes and the grins that lit faces that, for the most part, had little to grin about.
The life expectancy of one of Count Remond’s troopers was not good. Captain Denez, one of the oldest and longest serving, was only thirty, but he looked at least forty. At best life was harsh for these men, at worst, brutal. If Ben could bring a little light and laughter into their lives, then well and good.
Across the water, Ben was tripping light as a tumbler along the guardrail, using it as a tightrope, surrounded by smiling faces. A gust of laughter floated downriver towards them. Rose’s sense of misgiving eased. She must not turn into a killjoy. This was what Ben did, it was his raison d’être, and what kind of a friend would she be if she could not accept him for what he was? And since Ben did not have her fear of water, there was no way he would drown.
It is just that, sometimes, it is hard to see him continually playing the fool; and sometimes it is hard to share him with so many others.
Aghast at the possessive nature of that last thought, she snapped her brows together. Where on earth had that come from?
‘Oh, no,’ Rozenn muttered, as Ben unbuckled his belt and lobbed it to one of the guards, its silver buckle flashing in the sun.
‘What?’
Rozenn swallowed. ‘He…he’s taking his tunic off.’
‘I should think so, such a fine tunic, it would be a shame to spoil it. Did you make it?’
‘No.’
Mikaela kept her attention on the group on the Pont du Port. ‘I wish I could see properly.’
Rozenn murmured something noncommittal, her own eyes fixed on the lithe figure balanced on the bridge guardrail. The green tunic was tossed carelessly aside and was immediately followed by a cream linen chainse. That she had made, some years before. She was touched he still wore it.
The guards let out a cheer.
Rozenn cleared her throat. It was at least a hundred yards to the bridge, but even at this distance the sight of Ben’s naked back set curls of tension winding in her belly. Why that should be, she could not imagine, especially since she had already seen his naked back several times before when they were children. And this morning, she reminded herself, heat flooding her cheeks, she had last seen his naked back this morning. She could not seem to tear her gaze from those athletic shoulders, the curve of his buttocks…
Thank God he was keeping on his hose. Wasn’t he?
Hopping on one foot—how on earth did he keep his balance on the rail?—Ben tore a boot off and tossed it at a guard. Its fellow followed. To her relief he made no move to remove his hose.
From the throats of half-a-dozen men at arms, a slow countdown began.
‘Ready!’ Mikaela cried. She snatched her veil from her head and waved like a mad thing. ‘Steady!’ She jumped up and down, her enthusiasm shaking the entire jetty. ‘Go!’
Ben turned to face them, grinned across the water and dived into the river with barely a ripple.
At the same moment, Jerome hared off across the Pont du Port and up the hill towards Hauteville. In a moment, he had run out of sight behind the houses that clung to the escarpment on the other side of the river.
Ben’s dark head remained visible as, sleek as an otter, he cut his way through the water with the swift, clean strokes that Rozenn remembered from their childhood.
‘It’s easier this way, he’s swimming with the stream,’ Mikaela said. ‘He will find it harder on the way back.’
Absently, Rozenn nodded, holding her breath lest she lose sight of that dark head, of those strong, well-formed arms… If Ben drowned, if Ben drowned… Though she reminded herself that, unlike her, Ben swam well, the fear remained. Ridiculous. Ben would not drown.
Reeds rustled by the jetty, and she caught a flash of red as a water-rail squealed. A dragonfly darted. The sun was hot, it was shining in the water droplets falling in silver arcs from Ben’s arms.
Mikaela tucked her veil in her belt and approached the edge of the jetty.
‘Take care, Mikaela, that plank doesn’t look very secure,’ Rozenn warned, even as Ben reached the jetty and proved her wrong by hauling himself out of the river in one swift movement.
Shaking water from his eyes, Ben put his hands on his hips and grinned. ‘A kiss,’ he said, looking at Mikaela. ‘I claim my kiss.’ He was barely out of breath.
As Mikaela stepped up and offered Ben her lips a distant shout from the bridge reminded those on the jetty that there were men who had wagered their pay on Benedict Silvester winning the race. He had to get back…
‘Hey, Silvester!’
‘Shift yourself!’
Playing to his audience, Ben swung Mikaela dramatically into his arms—his wet arms, Rozenn thought waspishly—