An Honourable Rogue. Carol Townend

Rozenn said. ‘I simply think it is folly, a waste of time and sleep. Walking seven times round a church at midnight, for heaven’s sake. As if that will tell you your true love. It’s utter lunacy.’

      ‘You don’t have to believe in it, it’s fun.’ Mikaela took her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Per wouldn’t mind. He’d want you to be happy, to find someone else. And if the spell does work—’ she grinned ‘—you’ll learn who your true love is.’

      ‘But I already know that,’ Rozenn said, before she could stop herself.

      Mikaela’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’

      Rozenn could have bitten out her tongue; she had planned to be subtle when she told Mikaela her plans, not blurt them out like a fool. Abruptly turning her shoulder, she fingered the gold cross she wore on a chain round her neck and gazed down the cobbled street as it ran down to the quays and the castle in Quimperlé proper. Overhead, the house martins threaded back and forth across a pink- streaked sky.

      ‘Nothing.’ Rose wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and sighed. Young Anton was toiling up the hill, pulling a hand cart laden with bales of cloth, destined doubtless for Mark Quémeneur, the town’s main tailor now her husband was dead. ‘That boy will have to hurry if he wants to get to Mark’s workshop before he locks up for the evening.’

      ‘Rozenn Kerber, don’t you dare change the subject!’

      Rozenn sighed. ‘It was nothing, Mikaela, I spoke out of turn. It was so hot in Countess Muriel’s solar today, my brain must have addled.’

      As Anton and the cart rumbled by, Mikaela tugged at her hand, trying to make her meet her eyes. ‘No escape, Rose. You said something extremely interesting. You said you already know who your true love is, and it didn’t sound to me as though you were referring to Per.’ Mikaela’s voice was light and teasing, but she was frowning. ‘I know you were fond of him, but you were hardly starry-eyed when you married. You didn’t mean Per, did you? Is it someone I know?’

      ‘Leave it, Mikaela, I spoke without thought.’

      ‘Tell me, Rose,’ Mikaela said, softly wheedling. ‘Tell me who you love.’

      ‘No.’ Rozenn tossed her head and laughed at her friend’s persistence. ‘In truth, I was going to tell you some time soon, but since this has you in such a fever, you have to guess. I’ll share my supper with you if you guess his name.’

      ‘Not fair, since you were going to tell me anyway.’

      ‘It’s more fun teasing you! And did my ears deceive me, or didn’t you just say I needed to have more fun?’

      Mikaela narrowed her eyes. ‘That, Rose, is a low blow.’

      ‘Go on, guess! I went to the castle bakehouse and Stefan gave me a chicken pie that would feed a giant. There’s far too much just for me.’ She moved to the threshold, and pulled her garlanded door fully open. ‘Come in, please. Your father will know where you are.’

      The house that Rozenn had shared with her husband was, like most of the merchants’ houses in Hauteville, a two-roomed dwelling, wattle and daub on a wood frame. The room at the front, facing the street, had wide shutters that Per used to fling open to display the shop and its wares. The shutters were pulled to now, and the shop was stuffy and full of deepening shadows. A further door led through to the room behind the shop, the living room where Rozenn and Per had cooked and eaten and slept. Light glowed there and the girls moved towards it, long skirts rustling. The shutter on the far wall was open, and the back of a neighbour’s house was dark against a purpling sky.

      As they passed through the shop, Mikaela’s gaze fell on the shelves, half of which were empty. Her frown deepened. ‘Your stock, Rozenn? Where’s all the cloth?’

      ‘Sold most of it.’

      ‘To Mark Quémeneur?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Will it pay Per’s debts?’ Mikaela asked, knowing how upset her friend had been to discover that her husband owed several of the townsfolk money.

      ‘I pray so.’

      Mikaela indicated the remaining stock. ‘And what happens to this lot?’

      Rozenn smiled. ‘I plan to sell it on market day. Mark offered me a reasonable price, but you know what a huckster he is. These fabrics should sell quite easily, and I think I can make more money myself.’

      ‘You’ll still take in sewing, though?’

      Rozenn murmured something noncommittal and turned away, not quite ready to reveal her plans to leave the Duchy. ‘Mark was pleased to have the damasks and the Byzantine silks. Oh, and before I forget, I saved you a length of that blue velvet you were so taken with.’

      ‘Did you?’ Mikaela’s eyes lit up. ‘My thanks but, Rose, I do have a little money. I can pay you.’

      ‘Don’t be silly. Per may have left debts, but I am not so encumbered that I can’t give you a gift.’

      ‘You are generous. But what will you do without your shop? You will keep on with your sewing? Rose, you must. You’re so clever with a needle, you’ll never want for work.’

      Leading the way into the living room, Rose smiled and bent to add a log on to the fire in the central hearth. Taking a taper, she lit a couple of candles and waved Mikaela to a stool. ‘Aye, there’s always needlework.’ She picked up the sewing and her heavy money pouch and dropped them on the bed by the wall. It was such a relief to know that soon she would be able to pay off Per’s debts.

      At the table, Mikaela leaned her chin on one hand and airily waved the other while Rozenn hunted out wooden cups and plates. ‘Enough of work,’ Mikaela said. ‘Let’s get to the main business of the evening. I have to guess who Rozenn loves? Who can it be?’ She tapped her lips with her forefinger. ‘You say I know him?’

      ‘Ye…es, but you won’t have seen him for a while.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Abruptly Mikaela straightened. ‘Oh, this is like stealing sweetmeats from a baby! I know, I know exactly who it is!’

      Rozenn took a wine-skin down from its hook, drew the stopper and reached for Mikaela’s cup. ‘You do?’

      ‘Yes, yes, of course I do! It’s Ben, Benedict Silvester!’

      The wine-skin jerked in Rozenn’s hand. Rozenn stared blankly at a dark pool of wine that had somehow splashed on to the table. ‘B-Ben?’

      ‘Yes! The lute-player.’

      Rozenn snorted and shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t love Benedict Silvester if he were the last man on earth.’

      Mikaela raised a brow. ‘You wouldn’t? I always thought you adored each other. You played together as children whenever he was around—inseparable, you were.’

      ‘Children are extremely uncritical.’

      ‘But you do like him, Rose, I know you do!’

      ‘Yes, yes, of course I like him,’ Rozenn said, a touch impatiently. ‘How could I not? He’s kind and witty and amusing.’

      Mikaela’s expression grew dreamy. ‘Handsome, Rozenn. Don’t forget that. Those eyes—dark as sin—’

      ‘He’s a rootless charmer—’

      ‘Those long eyelashes…hair like ebony. And he plays the lute like an angel.’

      ‘That last is true.’

      Mikaela’s bosom heaved. ‘And as for his body…’

      Rozenn scowled. ‘What would you know about Ben’s body?’

      Mikaela’s