Without waiting to hear what Catherine might say, Armand turned and left his wife’s chamber. Veronique was still weeping noisily, so Catherine scooped up the baby in her arms, carrying him through to the cradle in the closet. As she tucked the covers snugly round him, his face puckered and he began to wail. She looked at him in alarm and began to rock the cradle gently with her foot. Far from abating, his cries increased in volume until he was bawling loudly.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Catherine said to him in dismay. “You’ll have to wait a while, I fear.”
She hurried out into the main room.
“Veronique, was a wet-nurse engaged for Simon, do you know?”
As there was no response, she knelt at the woman’s side, putting a gentle hand on her arm and repeating her question. The maid looked up and struggled to control herself.
“Not that...I know of...Oh, madam, what shall I do with my poor sweet lady gone? Where shall I go?”
“We’ll think of something.”
Catherine pushed away the dull nagging pain of her own grief. There was no time to weep yet. Her little brother must be cared for.
She hurried out of the room, ignoring Simon’s frenzied yelling, ran down the stairs, across the courtyard and up to her own chamber. The snoring mound in the bed was her maid, Sévrine.
“Wake up!” Catherine said, bending over and shaking her. The snores continued. A strong smell of liquor rose from the huddled form. Catherine’s nose wrinkled in distaste.
She crossed the room and picked up the water-jug; returning to the bed, she dashed its contents over the woman’s head. The snores stopped abruptly and, gasping and spluttering, Sévrine opened her eyes.
“What on earth?” she protested. Then she saw her charge standing nearby, the empty water-jug in her hand. “Mistress Catti, how could you?”
“Get on your feet – now! You must take charge of the baby while I go and find a wet-nurse.”
“Baby? Wet-nurse? What are you talking about, my sweet?”
“I am talking about providing for my brother who was born last night. I want you to go and get him and bring him over here. Presumably you can think of something which he can be given to soothe his hunger for a while. You were my nurse after all. Do you understand?”
“Well, yes, but what about Lady Françoise? Doesn’t she...?”
“My mother is dead.”
“Oh, my lambkin...” The woman reached out her arms towards the girl.
Catherine took a step backwards.
“There’s no time, Sévrine. Just do as I’ve told you. Straight away. And don’t let Ahmed near him – the baby, I mean. Do you hear me? I’m going to Kerhouazoc.”
“But you can’t, Mistress. It’s not fitting.”
Sévrine had struggled to her feet, deathly pale and looking as if she might keel over at any moment.
“I suppose you’re in a fit state to go to the village instead, are you? As far as I can see I’m about the only healthy person in Radenoc this morning.”
“Oh, Mistress Catti, I must tell you about what happened...”
“Be quiet, Sévrine. There are more important things than blood-lettings and orgies.”
The maid started to laugh then groaned and clutched her head.
“You’ve got very self-righteous all of a sudden, haven’t you?” she muttered. “What brought that on?”
Catherine drew herself up in what she hoped was a dignified and mature way.
“I happen to consider my brother’s welfare to be of paramount importance at the moment,” she said coldly. “If you cannot do my bidding I will find someone else who can.”
“I’m going, Mistress, I’m going. Keep your hair on. Christ, you had a look of his lordship then, the Saints preserve us.” She crossed herself.
“He is my father,” Catherine said as she turned away, “so it’s hardly very surprising.”
Catherine had intended to take one of the servants with her to the nearby village of Kerhouazoc but the castle courtyard still had a strange deserted air. One or two scullions, looking in a similar state to Sévrine, were sitting around outside the bake-house. The stables seemed to be deserted and only a few yawning men-at-arms lounged in a perfunctory way beside the main gate.
“Lower the footbridge, please,” Catherine commanded.
Without commenting or questioning, a soldier stumbled off to do her bidding. Eager presumably to go back to his fellows, he barely waited for her to step on to solid ground before yanking the handle to let the bridge crash back into place.
The situation in Kerhouazoc was much the same. Catherine had ridden through the village once or twice and it was never a bustling place. The peasants’ huts huddled together as if for mutual protection. Their thatched roofs, some weed-grown, others leaky and unkempt, came down to merely a foot or so off the ground. There were no windows, merely an open doorway and a hole in the roof to let out the smoke. They must be pitch dark inside and desperately uncomfortable, Catherine thought.
Today few had bothered to light cooking fires and no adults were about. Some filthy ragged children were fighting between two of the miserable dwellings. Another, much younger child, was crawling in the dirt outside one of the doorways, putting into his mouth whatever he could find there. Alarmed, Catherine drew closer, only to be halted where she stood by the sound of fierce barking from inside the hut. The dog seemed to arouse others and several emaciated curs began to creep towards her, snarling. Heart pounding, she abandoned the child and walked rapidly away.
At the far end of the village, a column of blue smoke rose above a larger dwelling. As Catherine drew closer to it, she heard the cheerful, reassuring sound of a man’s voice raised in song to an accompaniment of ringing hammer blows. The blacksmith, at least, seemed to be awake and unaffected by last night’s debauch.
In fact, she realised as she reached it, the smithy was essentially just a roof, open to the air at the front and sides and with the usual sort of hut at the rear. It was very hot inside, and strangely red, illuminated as it was by the forge fire. With that and the huge figure of the smith, dwarfed by his own giant shadow, it could almost have been a vision of hell – except that Catherine didn’t feel frightened at all, quite the reverse.
The man broke off his song as he spotted her and set down his hammer. Audible now from the hut at the rear came the sound of a baby crying.
“Good day, little lady. And what might I do for you?” The man came forward, mopping his brow with a large soiled kerchief.
“You might be able to advise me,” Catherine said. “You seem to be the only person who’s awake.”
“I don’t hold with the old pagan ways,” he said, crossing himself. “They lead to trouble, more often than not. But that’s by the by.” He peered at her more closely and then frowned. “But my wits have gone a-wandering and I ask your pardon. Aren’t you the young lady from the castle? Lord Armand’s daughter?”
Catherine sensed a new wariness in his manner.
“That’s right, yes. Look, I’ll explain why I’ve come. My mother had a child last night but…but she didn’t survive the birth. I’m looking for a wet-nurse for the baby. Do you know of anyone?”
“I can’t say I do.”
Despite his size and obvious strength, the man sounded almost afraid.
Catherine felt tears rising. What could she do? It wasn’t just that her father had left Simon in her charge – she had never cared so much about anything or anyone: he was her little brother, her precious joy.
“Oh, please,” she said. “I heard a baby crying. If it’s yours, couldn’t your wife help me for just a few days until I can find someone else? The little one is strong but he’s crying; he’s hungry. I can’t let him die like all the others.” Tears had begun to roll down her cheeks.
“The babe’s my daughter’s, ma’am. And he’s sickly.”
“He has a fever, do you mean? Then I’ll pray for him. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
She turned
away, dashing the tears away with the back of her hand.
“No, look, I meant he’s frail, like, not that he’s ill. Sit down a moment, ma’am, m’lady I should say. I’ll have a word with the wife – see what she says.”
“Oh, could you? I’d be so grateful.”
“Here.” He dragged a stool out from under a pile of assorted debris and gave it a wipe with his grubby kerchief. “I’ll not keep you waiting for long.”
When he had gone, Catherine dried her eyes and blew her nose. She must control herself. She must not break down and weep; she must not think about her mother’s death, not yet. If she once allowed herself to start to cry she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop.
What could she think of instead? The answer came in a flash: the boy, the minstrel whom she had hidden – she had almost forgotten about him. Determinedly she conjured his face up into her mind. He had taken the lady’s part when they had played ‘Tristan and Iseult’ in the Hall a couple of days ago. She gave a shaky little laugh. Well, she wasn’t going to think of him as Iseult! But she could call him Tristan: that name was heroic enough. She pictured herself, married to the tyrannical King Mark, then fleeing to Tristan, her lover. She could imagine him, fully armed and wearing a glorious silk surcoat, kneeling at her feet and gazing at her adoringly.
The return of the blacksmith, with two women, roused her abruptly from her reverie. The older white-haired one, presumably the blacksmith’s wife, looked almost as if she could have been his mother. The younger, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, had tow-coloured hair and was equally gaunt and pale. Her bosom was extremely well-developed, however, which Catherine hoped might suggest a plentiful milk supply. She rose to her feet and greeted them courteously.
“Farzel says you’re looking for a wet-nurse for a babe up yonder,” the older woman said. “We’d like to help you but Marie’s attached to her little ‘un, sickly little bastard though he is. So I don’t see what we can do.”
“And you don’t think possibly...” Catherine looked sadly at the girl, “...you wouldn’t be able to feed two, would you?”
“Are you saying she could take her own babe with her to the castle?” The older woman sounded incredulous.
“Well, I wouldn’t be asking her to abandon it, would I?” Catherine said in exasperation. “What do take me for?”
“Castle folk aren’t known for kindness.”
The blacksmith, a silent spectator until now, glanced warningly at his wife.
“Hush, Matilde. She’s but a child. If Marie may take Bihan with her, there can surely be no objection. She’s milk enough for half a dozen! God knows where it all comes from.”
“Oh yes!” Catherine exclaimed. “Thank you so much! She’ll have to sleep at the castle, I’m afraid, though she’ll get her meals, of course. And I expect her husband may visit her. After all, she’ll only be needed for a few months and I’ll see she’s paid well.”
“There’s no husband,” Matilde said, tight-lipped.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did he die?”
Matilde muttered something which sounded blasphemous. The blacksmith intervened hastily.
“She was got with child at this cursed festival, a twelve-month ago. She don’t even know who the father is, she claims, what with the excitement and whatnot.”
The girl cast a glowering look at her father.
“Well, that’s not my concern,” Catherine said brightly. She looked at the girl and smiled. “Marie? Could you come to the castle straight away, do you think? I hate to think of little Simon crying and crying.”
“Yes’m. I’ll be glad to.”
“We’ll send our boy Yon up with Bihan and her things,” the blacksmith said, beaming. “Farzel Le Goff at your service, my lady.”
“Catherine de Metz at yours,” she said with an answering smile, holding out her hand to him.
He hesitated for a moment then took it gingerly in his great paw.
“We’re honest folk, Lady Catherine. Treat us fair and we’ll do the same for you.”
“Thank you, Farzel. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Words is easy,” sniffed Matilde, crossing her arms over her scrawny bosom.
“We shall see, shan’t we?” Catherine said sweetly. “Marie, if you’re ready, let’s go.”
“You mind you do as you’re told, my girl,” Farzel warned. “None of your nonsense.”
The girl cast a resentful look in his direction but said nothing.
Back in the castle, Sévrine was vainly trying to appease the bawling infant with a rag dipped in sweetened water. Baby Simon was not to be fobbed off with such inadequate fare. They all laughed at the greed with which he fastened himself onto Marie’s hastily bared nipple.
“Thank heavens! Peace at last!” Sévrine exclaimed. “I’d forgotten what a row a tiny pair of lungs can make.”
“I must go and have Gilles’s room properly prepared for him,” Catherine said. “You and Marie will be sleeping there.”
“No! What Gilles’s room? Nonsense, Catti dear, how can I? And you’d be on your own!”
“Lord Armand’s orders must be obeyed, Sévrine. You know that.”
“Now don’t go all lordly on me again. If that’s what his lordship wants then we’ve no choice. But I don’t like it.”
“How’s Veronique?”
“Preparing your poor dear mother for her funeral. And very beautifully too. But Catherine, there was some of my clothes in your mother’s room: a kirtle and a cloak and a head-veil. Why were they there? What’s going on?”
“I’ve no idea. I’d speak to Veronique about it if I were you – I remember she used to say she liked your russet kirtle. Was it that one?”
“Well, it was. But I don’t like to be so small-minded at a time like this.”
“If you’ve got them back, perhaps you should just ignore it. Veronique will be leaving in a day or two anyway.”
“I’ll maybe make her a gift of it, poor creature, she’s so...”
“I can’t stay now,” Catherine broke in abruptly. “I have to see René Gilbert. You make Marie welcome. I’ll be back in a little while.”
Catherine slipped out of the room cursing herself for having forgotten about Sévrine’s clothes. With Lady Françoise’s pains starting and the birth proceeding so quickly, she had only just found time to go and dress herself. The bundle of clothing had completely slipped her mind.
René Gilbert’s quarters were in the tower at the far side of the gatehouse. As Radenoc’s steward he held an important and powerful position. His wife chose to live on their manor, some miles away, but several of their sons served in the castle as pages and squires. The eldest, Jocelyn, had won his spurs the previous year. René’s rooms were on the first floor: a small circular hall where castle business was conducted and an adjoining bedchamber.
The door from the stairs to the counting hall stood ajar and as Catherine approached it she could hear voices. Prompted by sudden curiosity, she crept forward silently and listened. Surely that was Father Hervé’s voice. She allowed herself a quick furtive glance into the room. There were four men present, seated at the long table: the priest, as she had thought, René Gilbert, Captain Rénard and Ahmed.
“But should I alert Lord Armand?” Father Hervé was saying. “I promised them that I would bury the wretched woman in hallowed ground. And that, in itself is dubious enough. I mean, she was unshriven, wasn’t she, and it was hardly a Christian death.”
Catherine froze. Was he talking about her mother? Certainly it had been her husband that Lady Françoise had sent for at the end, not the priest. But surely, as he prayed with her daily, there was no doubt about the state of her soul? Catherine almost burst into the room to protest but something held her back.
“Where are they now, these...players or whatever they call themselves?” The question came from Ahmed.
They were talking about his friends! Tristan’s friends. Catherine pressed closer.
“They are camped somewhere to
the north. But I told them to return at Nones for the interment.”
“Was there a boy with them?”
“I think so...yes.”
“Tall and dark with green, green eyes?” There was a strange caressing note in Ahmed’s soft voice. “I am so glad he is found. You must send out your men, Captain.”
“Yes, of course. Though I must say I’m surprised he’s with them!”
Catherine caught her breath, her heart pounding. Surely not! They couldn’t capture him now!
“He wasn’t dark, their boy: a red-head and young – thirteen or fourteen, no more, just a stripling. I don’t think there was another one – and no-one such as you describe.”
“You saw their entertainment, Father,” the steward said impatiently. “The boy Ahmed is referring to played the lady, Iseult.”
“No, no. It definitely wasn’t him.” Catherine allowed herself to breathe again. “Why? Is he important?”
To Catherine’s annoyance, the reply was inaudible. The priest gave a wheezing chuckle.
“I see, I see. No, he wasn’t of the company. Though perhaps he may re-join them for the burial.”
“That’s certainly a possibility,” Captain Rénard agreed. “I’ll attend, with some soldiers. Lord Armand made it quite clear that he wants the boy found.”
“But what about the woman? Do I bury her? What will his lordship say when he knows about it?”
“I did not realise that you condoned these rites, Father.” The Captain sounded deeply disapproving.
“Here Lord Armand’s word is law. I am obliged to obey his will.”
“Rather than God’s? What about the commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”
“Gentlemen, please.” René Gilbert’s tone was soothing, pacifying. “Now is not the time for such disputes.”
“To answer your question, Master Priest,” Ahmed said, “do not tell my master about these interfering vagabonds. It would upset him to no purpose. Bury her and send them on their way. She can easily be dug up again in a day or two. And perhaps, Captain, there might be ways of discouraging them from speaking of what they have seen. We would not wish Lord Armand’s name to be held in disrepute, would we?”
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