The Stone Rose Read Free Page B

as a dancer when he chose. Double chins wobbling, he slid swiftly between the rough-hewn tables to the source of the noise and signalled to the potboy, Tristan, to set the bench to rights. If anyone in Vannes could stop a riot it was Mikael Brasher. The trick was to sniff out the troublemakers before they had time to brew up a riot. Sniff them out and disarm them.
    Two men, red-faced with wine and anger, confronted each other across a table. Mikael waved the wine flask like a flag of truce between them. They were ugly customers these, with calloused hands already clawing out their daggers, they looked like mercenaries. Professional killers. Professional swillers. French mostly. Scum. They drove away good, honest Breton locals. Mikael did not have time to ponder on their being in his tavern.
    ‘It’s on the house!’ he bawled over the din. The bellowing subsided and an astonished silence gripped his auditors. Four drink-hazed eyes locked onto the flask as though it was the Holy Grail. Mikael’s lips twitched. His supposition had been correct. They
were
mercenaries. And the mercenary had not been born that would turn down an offer of free wine. Daggers clicked back into sheaths, the flagon vanished from his hand and the two mercenaries flopped back onto their benches. The regular hum of conversation resumed. Mikael rolled his eyes to the rafters, and suppressed a grin. The free wine trick worked every time. It was like pouring oil on troubled waters. Jesu, but it was busier than market day, Mikael thought, squinting at the ungovernable crew filling his benches.
    Tristan was at his elbow, a worried crease wrinkling his forehead. ‘It’s noisy, sir,’ Tristan said.
    Mikael nodded brusquely. ‘Aye. And hot.’ He waited for Tristan to go about his business, but the lad fixed him with a peculiarly intense stare and didn’t budge. ‘Tristan?’
    ‘Shall I fetch help? We...we’re a bit short of it this morning, I think.’ Again that intense, meaningful stare.
    Mikael grinned and gave the boy a playful punch in the stomach. ‘A kind thought, but there’s no need. I’m not in my dotage yet. We can handle them. Go and tap that new barrel in the yard.’
    Tristan gazed at his employer a moment longer, then he nodded and turned away.
    The boy was right about the noise. It was reaching unbearable levels. And the lack of air was stifling. Using the cloth wrapped round his waist, Mikael scrubbed the sweat from his brow. It was not the first time that the advent of a preacher at the Cathedral had doubled his business overnight, but these foreigners – Mikael grimaced – were not the usual run of the mill. He’d take his oath that they’d not a spiritual bone in their bodies. Their kind would sooner die than see the inside of a church. As for their coming to hear the Black Monk – it simply did not tally.
    He edged through the door for a breather. It was curious how his regulars had given Duke’s a miss this morning; he hardly recognised a soul. Perhaps they had itches at the backs of their necks, too. Hardly a Breton in sight. His sweat-beaded brow furrowed as he scowled up at his upstairs window. That Frenchman closeted up there had to be paymaster for the rabble below. He racked his brains for the foreigner’s name. Ah! he had it now, François de Roncier. A French count.
    The innkeeper cocked a weather eye at the sun. He made it to be after noon. A crowd was gathering round the church porch. Now
there
were the folk he knew. He caught sight of his daughter, Irene, in her pink bliaud, her over-gown, with a basket hanging on arm. If Irene was waiting, the monk would be spouting soon. Irene never wasted time. She was a good girl, was his Irene.
    Irene had seen him standing in the doorway. She crossed the square. ‘Why so glum, Father? Custom looks good today.’
    Mikael smiled resignedly. ‘Too good, my sweet. Too good. I’d wish them in Hell if I thought it would get rid of them.’
    ‘Father?’
    ‘Don’t trouble