“Is that so?”
“You put him in my care, Father. Let me order our affairs here, not Odette Taloc.”
There was a derisive snort from Ahmed and Lord Armand studied his daughter coldly.
“You are young, Catherine. Just a girl.”
“It doesn’t mean that I’m a fool!”
Armand laughed.
“You certainly have more spirit than your mother.” An odd expression crossed his face. “I knew another woman once who tossed her head and flashed her eyes at me like you.” He was silent for a moment. “I must be getting old if I’ve started dredging up the past.”
“You need a powder, master.”
“No, Ahmed. Not now. We will have guests arriving soon and I must be able to greet them.”
“Father,” Catherine summoned her courage; there was so much about her parents’ relationship which her mother had not adequately explained. “Why did my mother...”
“Enough.” His hand shot out and seized her jaw, as if to prevent her from speaking. “Ask nothing. I have acknowledged you and I trust you to care for my son. That is all.”
Tears rose in her eyes as he loosed his painful grip. She stumbled to her feet.
“You may leave now but bring the child to me later. Ahmed, take her away.”
It was after dinner when Catherine retraced her steps up to her father’s tower chamber. This time she was accompanied by Marie who carried baby Simon.
During the midday meal Odette had queened it at the High Table. Even René Gilbert had looked doubtful when she insisted on seating her entourage of drunken companions alongside Catherine, the steward and Father Hervé. Her riotous behaviour seemed at affect the whole Hall and far from seeming like the prelude to a lady’s funeral, the mood was more like a feast-day ...or a wedding celebration. The prospective groom, however, remained absent. None of the noble guests had yet arrived although the Count of Léon and his retinue were expected before nightfall.
“I’m right scared of seein’ his lordship,” Marie muttered as she plodded up the winding stairs.
“But surely you’ve seen him before, haven’t you?” said Catherine, following her up.
“But that’s the trouble, mistress. Oh, I’ve seen him huntin’ an’ that, but it’s Melgorn as I remember him from!”
“Melgorn?” Catherine repeated, thinking of the pagan rites held there. “Are you saying that he...that you...?”
Marie paused and looked back at Catherine with a laugh.
“Hardly. But he’s...the Master, isn’t he?” Her voice was a sibilant whisper. “It’s him who...you know. Sévrine says she told you.”
“I’ve told Sévrine before that I don’t want to hear about such vile doings. Now hurry up or he’ll be sending Ahmed to find us.”
Obediently the girl continued up the steps.
“Lay the child on the bed and unwrap him,” Armand commanded as they entered the room. He was alone. There was no sign of his Arab servant.
As Marie seemed to be paralysed with fright, Catherine relieved her of her burden.
“Wait outside until I call you,” Catherine told her crossly. The wretched girl was standing there staring at Lord Armand with her mouth open; she looked like an idiot. “Go on, move!”
Like a rabbit suddenly released from a snare, the girl fled.
“You appear to have little patience with the peasantry,” Armand observed, his voice amused.
“Well, I know she’s frightened of you but really!”
“And I supposed you are not frightened.”
“Why should I be?”
Armand had loosened the shawls which cocooned the baby. He now tightly gripped his father’s questing finger in his tiny fist. He kicked out, apparently delighted to have his legs free and made the strange snuffling squeaks which seemed to be his way of showing contentment or approval.
“Neither is Simon,” Armand said, glancing round at Catherine. “And you’re right. He is strong. A very likely lad...”
There was silence in the room apart from the baby’s gurgles and the sound of waves breaking against the rocks below the tower. Armand sat down on the bed and watched his son, an unreadable expression on his face. He had a little more colour, was a little less drawn than he had been earlier, she thought. Again she was struck by how old and frail he looked. If he married Odette and then died, Radenoc would become unbearable for Catherine. But then, of course, if Armand died, Radenoc would belong to Gilles and who was to say what would become of either of them then?
A few moments later there was a sharp rap on the chamber door.
“Enter.”
Armand stood as one of the squires came in. The boy bowed deeply and handed him a packet.
“From Lord Gilles, my lord. The messenger is waiting for an answer.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
The boy bowed again and left. Armand walked over to one of the window seats, breaking the seal as he went. Catherine hesitated, unsure whether she should leave.
“Sit with the child, Catherine. You may entertain one brother while I learn news of the other.”
Anxious about draughts, Catherine wrapped Simon securely in his bands and shawl. What a little darling he was, she thought, as she bent over the baby, tickling his rounded cheeks with the silken tip of her long braid and cooing softly to him. She looked up in surprise at an exclamation of annoyance from Lord Armand. Absorbed in the child, she had almost forgotten where she was.
“My older son requests permission to absent himself from your mother’s funeral. There have been skirmishes, he writes, on Léon’s Eastern border and du Plestin has left him to pursue the rebels. Ha! More likely he’s in pursuit of his latest paramour.”
“But the Count of Léon himself is coming, isn’t he?”
“Apparently.” He crumpled the letter and moved over to the bed where he stood, contemplating the child with a frown.
Catherine wondered what she should say.
“Perhaps he’ll come for Christmas,” she ventured and then wished she hadn’t. How stupid that had sounded!
“Whatever my faults, Catherine, I have always cared about Radenoc.” Armand did not seem to have heard her crass remark, she thought in relief. “I just do not understand him.”
On what seemed like a sudden impulse, he scooped the baby up and swung him high in his arms.
“Father! Be careful!” Catherine protested, jumping up.
Far from being startled, Simon gave a crow of excited glee.
“You see? He’s no milk sop. He’s healthy, strong. God, if I was younger, if I could be sure...” He strode with the child to the window seat and sat, holding him pressed against him. “All this could be yours, my son, if God grants me a few more years.”
“Do you mean you would rather Simon was baron than Gilles?” Catherine said, alarmed. There was that terrible story that her mother had told about Henri, Armand’s brother. Surely he could not be intending to harm his own son – his heir?
Armand gave a harsh bark of laughter.
“Use what brains God gave you, Catherine, and don’t jump to conclusions. How old is Gilles?”
“I’m not sure – quite old, anyway. More than thirty.”
“He is thirty-nine years old and he lives by the sword. And are you so utterly ignorant and naive that you do not know he is unwilling to marry, even for the barony’s sake?”
Catherine flushed, stung by the contempt in his tone.
“I know that if you had treated your wives better you might have more than three legitimate children alive today,” she flung at him indignantly. “Your bastards seem to fare well enough.”
For a second she quailed at the fury which darkened Armand’s face. Then to her astonishment, he laughed.
“My God, girl, you believe in living dangerously. Would that I were forty years younger and you a few years older – and not my daughter. What a team we might have made!”
Unsure what to say or do, Catherine merely stood where she was,
watching him warily.
“Go on, now, take your little brother – who I think has wet my robe, by the way – collect your fat peasant wench and prepare yourself to greet our noble guests. You may have your uses, my dear; I am starting to see that. Here.”
He held out the damp baby and Catherine took him without speaking.
Marie was still waiting on the landing outside but Catherine merely beckoned that she should follow her down the narrow, dimly lit steps. She was more used to such stairs than Marie was.
“Oh, God in Heaven, Mistress Catherine, he was worse than I expected,” Marie exclaimed once they had emerged onto the battlements.
“What do you mean?” Catherine asked coldly.
“He’s just like the Devil, in’t he? Or a livin’ corpse! I was that frightened!”
Catherine rounded on the girl, her expression so fierce that Marie shrank back in alarm.
“I thought you were enjoying living in the castle and having plenty to eat?”
“Well, yes, mistress...madam...You know I am.”
“In future, then, do not utter a word in criticism of my father or you will find yourself and your brat back where you came from. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes...mistress....Cath...”
“You address me as ‘my lady’. I, as you seem to forget, am Lord Armand’s daughter. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Very well. And the same goes for Sévrine too. I will not have any more of this insolent familiarity!”
Catherine swung round and marched into the keep with Marie bemusedly scurrying behind her.
To her surprise, once Simon was settled in his quarters and Catherine emerged unwillingly to contend once more with Odette, Armand’s mistress seemed to have disappeared. There was no sign of her or her usual companions in the solar. Several servants were engaged in tidying the room, mopping up spills and removing wine cups and debris. It was furnished in the Arab style, Catherine gathered, as was the tower chamber. The vivid tapestries and silk covered cushions and divans had been brought back by Lord Armand from the Crusade. Unfortunately, he had also brought Ahmed.
As she lingered, unsure where she should go or what she should do, a braying of horns proclaimed that someone was arriving. She knelt on the window seat and peered out of the narrow window. Sure enough, a cavalcade of horsemen had clattered into the courtyard. Perhaps she should go out and greet them.
Nervously, she hurried through the hall and down the steps. René Gilbert, dressed richly, was speaking to the most impressive of the riders as he dismounted. Catherine moved shyly forward but found her way barred. She was surrounded by horses and jostling men. The steward hadn’t even noticed her, let alone presented her and he was now leading two of the men towards the hall and shouting to a page to bring refreshment.
Angry both with herself and with René, Catherine hesitated. What should she do now? She was about to slip away when she realised that one of the squires, now he had removed his helmet, was someone she knew.
“Michel Gilbert!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
He was the steward’s youngest son, a boy merely three years older than Catherine herself. If René Gilbert had failed to notice his own son, she could hardly expect him to notice her.
“Catti? It can’t be! How you’ve grown!” Michel was beaming at her in delight. “I haven’t seen you for ages – how long is it? I came back one summer – was it two years ago?”
“It was three,” Catherine said. “But why are you here? You’re not with the Count’s household, are you?”
“No but I’m a squire now in the service of his uncle.”
“His uncle? Who’s that?”
“Lord Roland. He was your mother’s youngest brother. He was younger than her, I think. And funnily enough Phillipe du Plestin, the Count, is older than him! Isn’t that strange?” He chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling merrily. “The nephew is older than the uncle!”
“Oh, Michel, it is nice to see you again,” Catherine exclaimed.
“I was sorry to hear about your mother, Catti, and glad I could come and pay my respects. She was a fine lady – so gentle and kind.”
Tears rose in Catherine’s eyes.
“Yes, she was, wasn’t she?” she murmured.
Michel put a brotherly arm round her.
“Poor Catti. Or shouldn’t I call you that now? Is it to be ‘my lady’ from now on? You look so grown up.”
“Not from you, Michel. We’re old friends, aren’t we?”
“Certainly.”
“Sometime, when you’re free from your duties, perhaps I could take you to the chapel to see her?”
“I’d like that, Catti, please do.”
They entered the hall together. René Gilbert and the two lords were seated at the far end. Their men-at-arms, attended by their squires, were downing flagons of Radenoc ale. Michel hurried over to the knight he served. Catherine approached the dais.
“I am sorry to hear that,” the older man was saying. “And the child too is sickly, you say?”
Where was this story coming from?
“If you are referring to my brother, sir, let me assure you that he is strong and healthy.” Catherine spoke firmly.
The Count frowned and glanced at René Gilbert, apparently puzzled over Catherine’s identity. The steward leaned forward and murmured something inaudible.
Léon’s eyes rested on her briefly.
“I see,” he grunted dismissively.
The younger man, Lord Roland, rose to his feet and came forward to greet her.
“Accept my condolences, my lady,” he said softly. “I had not seen my sister for many years but I grieve for her loss – you, who were close to her, must feel it much more keenly.”
“Thank you, sir.” Catherine curtsied respectfully, battling with tears.
“And your steward tells us that the baron is grievously sick?”
“No! At least I don’t think so. René, why have you said that?”
“I am just repeating what I am told by Master Ahmed, child. And surely he must know.”
Catherine looked from face to face. There was what almost seemed to be a gloating expression on Léon’s sallow, heavy-jowled face.
“He’s just tired, I think. And, well, upset, naturally.”
“Naturally,” René Gilbert agreed, but he didn’t meet Catherine’s eyes.
“Perhaps Gilles should be sent for,” the Count suggested.
“I do not think the situation is as desperate as that,” René assured him. “Perhaps after...in a few days’ time, we will see.”
“You’re right. Festina lente.... Quite so. We do not wish to spoil all through excessive haste, do we?”
“I will have you conducted to your chambers now, gentlemen,” the steward said, rising and clapping his hands together. “There will be hot water and bath-tubs awaiting you.”
“Good man, Gilbert, lead on.”
“Sir,” Catherine caught at Lord Roland’s sleeve as he turned to follow the others. “What did they mean?”
He looked down at her with a troubled frown.
“I don’t know, my dear.” Half to himself he added, “I only wish I did.”
Before retiring to her own bedchamber, Catherine decided that she would look in on baby Simon, just to assure herself once again that there was no truth in this foolish story about him being sickly.
The nursery was a warm haven of tranquillity. Marie was dozing in a chair by the fire. Sévrine was sitting on the window seat stitching a tiny night-gown by the last glimmers of daylight. Simon was sound asleep in his cradle, his rounded cheek a delicate pink, his breathing calm and even.
“He’s taken no harm from his visit to his father,” Catherine observed in a whisper.
“Not a bit,” agreed Sévrine. “He was even snoring earlier. And you don’t need to speak low – it’s only hunger wakes him. Unlike you when you were a babe!”
“All right, Sévrine, we wo
n’t go into that.”
“We’ve been waiting for him to wake so he can have his tonic. Poor Marie’s dropped off herself, in the meanwhile. I’ve given a drop to her lad but it don’t seem right to wake the little lord specially.”
“Tonic? What tonic?”
There was a flask on the table – a little like the one which Ahmed had given to Catherine when her mother’s pains had started – and which she had forgotten about. Her heart began to thump.
“Is this the tonic? Where did it come from?”
“Oh, Master Ahmed brought it. Said his lordship had advised it against the damp autumn weather. And it’s true, C...my lady, there’s a chill in the air this evening. Oh! Catherine, what are you doing?”
She had snatched up the flask, pulled out the stopper and was emptying its contents out of the window.
“Don’t you ever, EVER, give Lord Simon anything that he has sent. Do you hear? If he does, you pour it away and tell me! He means him harm! I’m sure of it!”
“How can you say that, my lady? Why you and I have both had many a potion Ahmed has made. So has half the castle.”
“It doesn’t make any difference! There’s some plot afoot. I’m sure of it. Something to do with Simon and Gilles. But they won’t harm Simon, not while I’m here. You tell Marie. And bar the door after me. Don’t open it for anyone, especially not for him! Do you promise me?”
“Are you feeling quite well, my lady?”
“Promise me!”
“Oh, yes, all right. But there, you’ve woken him now with your shouting. There, there, sweetheart. I’m coming.”
“Wait until I’ve gone first. Bar the door and then see to him.”
“Very well.”
Once she had left the room she waited until she heard the crossbar being dropped into place before moving away. Simon was safe now. But for how long?
The following morning, an insolent page-boy demanded that Catherine should accompany him to Mistress Odette’s rooms. Still anxious about Simon, she agreed reluctantly. If she refused, she suspected that Odette would have her brought forcibly and that would be even worse. Catherine was also curious as to why Odette had kept out of the way the previous day. It seemed too much to hope for that she should have relinquished her pretensions.
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