“You wanted to see me?” Catherine hesitated in the doorway of Odette’s chamber.
The girl was wearing nothing but a thin shift which revealed all too clearly the ample curves of her body. It was unclear whether she was emptying or filling the numerous chests and coffers which filled the room. Brightly coloured gowns and lengths of silk were strewn everywhere. She smiled radiantly at Catherine then bounded across the room to take her hand and pull her inside.
“I’m going to find you something nice to wear,” she said, tossing her heavy dark hair out of her face. “You will be meeting all these important people and you must make the right impression. Perhaps one of them would make you a suitable husband so you must look especially fine.”
“But I don’t think... Is it seemly? I mean my mother is dead. Shouldn’t I be soberly dressed?”
“Nonsense. Not red, perhaps. That’s my favourite colour. But bright, nevertheless. What about this?”
She held a vivid green gown up against her.
“But won’t it be too large for me?” Catherine objected, trying to be tactful. The stuff was shiny and vulgar.
“Well, maybe. But that’s just the point! We’re going to improve on nature a little.”
“What do you mean?”
“Padding, darling. Supply you with a delicious bosom to make up for your shortcomings. No-one will know – unless of course you really take someone’s fancy. And you can always say something about your mother’s funeral not being quite the right time for a tumble. Most men’d respect that, unless they were drunk, of course. But if they’re drunk they won’t guess anyway so it doesn’t matter.”
“You’re not...not saying that I should lie with...”
Odette gave a peal of laughter.
“Oh, you’re all right there, dearie. You can give ‘em a taste of the goods to get ‘em interested. It’ll be your dowry they really want anyway, so they’ll have to marry you to get that. You’re quite safe.”
“You mean a man will only want me for my money? My position?”
“With your looks, of course!”
A flood of anger, shame and horror swept over Catherine. Odette knew about such matters, she had to give her credit for that. Did she look so bad? She grabbed a yellow gown and went over to the mirror. Her refection, pale faced, flat-chested and bony-shouldered, glared back at her. She bit her lip.
“See what I mean? Here, have one of these.” She proffered a silver dish of sugared comfits. “It’s different for me. I mean, I’ve only got my face and my body so I shouldn’t really take chances. But I’m all right now, thanks be – his lordship’s a man of his word, I’m sure. And I want to give you a bit of advice. I’ll be your stepma, after all.”
“And Simon’s.”
“Well, that isn’t so likely, poor little mite, is it?”
There it was again: the same assumption.
“But my father has given you his promise, has he?” Catherine felt sick with dread. “When is the wedding to be?”
“In a couple of days – before the company leaves. He said...now, let me get this right...that I was to keep myself out of sight until her ladyship was laid to rest. Well, that’s only proper, isn’t it? And then...oh, I know ‘he would let me take my true position in Radenoc’ and all the noble lords and ladies would be our witnesses. So there. What do you think?”
“Congratulations.”
“So come on, now, stop your sulking and let’s get you dressed. Do you favour the yellow? Or what about purple?”
Half an hour later, Odette declared herself satisfied. Catherine wore a mustard-coloured gown and a sky-blue tunic – they were the least gaudy of Odette’s garments. Catherine was far from happy at the way the neckline was cut or at the voluptuous swellings which had been cunningly contrived beneath it. Her dark red hair hung loose and Odette had threaded it with blue ribbons. Vermilion salve had been rubbed on her lips and cheeks. Her reflection in the mirror was unrecognisable. She wasn’t sure what she looked like but it certainly wasn’t herself.
“Now, hurry down, Catherine. I hear a bugle. I expect a full report later of who is here and what they say to you.”
“Very well.”
“Very well, Stepmother,” Odette corrected triumphantly.
“You are not my stepmother yet, Mistress Taloc,” Catherine said sharply.
“Take her down, Laval,” Odette said brusquely to the young man who had appeared in the doorway. “Have a care what you say to me, miss.”
Without troubling to reply or waiting to be escorted, Catherine ran ahead down the stairs.
Chapter Four
The courtyard was a seething mass of colour and noise. Catherine paused in the doorway, watching in amazement. Apart from brief visits from the Lord of Penmarch and his attendants, Armand had never entertained his neighbours. Now, surely, half the lords and ladies in western Brittany had gathered in the castle. Near the stables she spotted Yon holding the head of a neat bay mare while a lady was lifted down from a pillion seat. There was another lady, wearing a scarlet cloak, standing by the well. Taking a deep breath, Catherine stepped out into the throng, battling her way towards her.
“Why here she is!” the lady exclaimed as Catherine reached her. “You’re Armand’s daughter, I assume?”
“Yes, my lady.” Catherine was about to ask her who she was when she found herself caught up in a smothering embrace.
“Now, child, you must take my sister and me to a comfortable chamber where we can recover from our journey. Your dear mother had a solar, of course?”
“Well, there is a solar, yes, but...”
“That will do splendidly. Come along, Margot!” she called across the courtyard a woman who was struggling valiantly towards them. “Let the others deal with the baggage.”
Moments later Catherine found herself leading the two ladies through the hall and up into the solar. She called to one of the pages to bring warm water for washing and a jug of the best wine, feeling quite pleased with herself as she did so.
“How extraordinary!” the younger lady observed, removing her cloak and gazing round. “The furnishings are very exotic, aren’t they, Margot?”
“I suppose your father brought all this back from the east, dear, did he?”
“That’s right, yes. But please pardon my ignorance, ladies, I’m not quite sure who you are.”
“Bless the child. No. Of course you’re not. You will have seen my brother before, of course: he’s Lucien Kerboul, Lord of Penmarch. I’m Hélène, his youngest sister.” She gave a tinkling laugh. “And this is Margot Kerboul, my sister-in-law – Lucien’s wife.”
“And what about the other ladies I saw...?”
Hélène laughed.
“They weren’t ladies, dear, they were our servants!”
“Oh.”
“So this is where you’re hiding yourselves, my dears.”
A large, ruddy complexioned man was standing in the doorway.
“You don’t mind if we join you, do you? This room is considerably more comfortable than the hall.”
Without waiting for a reply he strode in. Other richly dressed gentlemen crowded after him. A number of pages were hurriedly pouring and distributing goblets of wine. The first man sprawled himself down on one of the divans, his muddy boots propped on an embroidered foot-stool. Needing little encouragement, the others followed his example.
“Really, Lucien,” Lady Margot objected, “how can you treat poor Lady Françoise’s solar in such a fashion?”
He bellowed with laughter.
“She was never in here! It was Armand’s mistress who held court here. Speaking of which, where’s the present one? She’s a very tasty armful, as I recall.” He sat up and looked round curiously.
“Don’t heed him, dear,” said Lady Margot, hastily shepherding Catherine over to the window seat.
“Do you care to wash your hands, ladies?” Laval, the page whom Catherine had last seen in Odette’s chamber, was holding a steaming basin of wa
ter and soft white towels.
“Yes indeed,” said Hélène, “set the water down over there, boy.”
“Have you brought refreshments too?” Lady Margot asked. “I’m famished.”
“Wine, my lady, and honey cakes.”
“Good. In my condition I have to keep up my strength. Now, sit down in the light, child, and let us have a good look at you.”
Feeling awkward and embarrassed, Catherine obeyed. The older lady, Margot, had a full round face and a plump figure. It was hard to tell her age but Catherine guessed that she might be as much as thirty. Hélène was taller with a slender figure and large dark eyes. Both wore close-fitting gowns and long head-veils.
“Why Heaven bless the child!” Hélène cried in sudden amusement. “What game have you been playing?”
“I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” Catherine said stiffly.
“Why, look at her, Margot! Guy, Guy, come over here. I’m sure this is all for your benefit. Why, it’s too droll!”
A young man joined the group by the window. Some people would probably have considered him handsome, Catherine thought, meeting his rather protruding blue eyes with a defiant glare. Compared with Tristan he was much too showy: his full lips were too red, his chestnut curls too bright, his smile too knowing.
“Why, what a funny-looking filly,” he said with a snort of laughter. “She’s painted like a maypole and shaped like one too...apart from those, of course.” His gaze dropped to her padded bosom.
Instinctively, she put her hands up to conceal herself. Guy appeared to misinterpret the gesture.
“Get her to wash her face and I might just be interested.”
To her horror, he winked at her boldly before strolling back over to the men.
“Really, dear, you’re behaving in a rather forward way,” said Margot in a concerned tone of voice. “I don’t know what you can have been thinking of – flaunting yourself like that.”
“I didn’t mean...I wasn’t...” Catherine felt herself turning as red as the salve on her cheeks.
“She needs proper guidance,” Hélène said. “Come, child. Let’s wash this horrible stuff off your face and braid your hair decently. Do you usually wear it loose in this vulgar fashion? It makes you look like a -”
“Hélène! Watch your tongue – you’re distressing the girl. You’re called Catherine, aren’t you, dear?”
“Yes,” she muttered.
“Well, I can quite understand why you were keen to attract Guy’s attention. He’d be a very suitable husband for you – and he’s so handsome.”
Hélène chuckled.
“Forward or not, I think it worked. He’s still looking at you, Catherine.”
“Don’t you have a veil, dear?”
“Yes. Of course I do. Shall I go and put it on?” She eagerly seized the possibility of escape.
“We’ll come with you, child. Perhaps we can also find you a more appropriate gown! And you can show us your baby brother too.”
Desperate to shake off the young man’s staring eyes, she guided the two ladies towards the stairs. The narrow flight of steps led straight up from the solar to Simon’s nursery. Half way up, the passageway to her own room branched off to the left.
“Perhaps you’d like to see my brother first,” Catherine said, running lightly ahead of them to the nursery.
“Open the door, Sévrine, it’s me,” she called.
“Do you keep the chamber barred, then?” Hélène asked. “How odd.”
“One can’t be too careful, my lady.”
“Of course not. The poor little lamb.”
Simon’s cradle was in the centre of the room, well away from draughts from the windows and the excessive heat of the fire. Marie, seated on a low stool, was feeding her own baby. Sévrine curtsied deeply to the two richly dressed ladies.
“How is your little Lord today, nurse?” Margot enquired.
“Well, my lady, thank you.” She proudly gestured to the cradle. He was awake and was gazing up at them as if interested in knowing who they were.
“My, what a fine child. May I?” Lady Margot bent over to lift him.
Sévrine sniffed. “You’d best ask her ladyship.” She nodded towards Catherine. “She’s in charge.”
Margot laughed.
“The girl? Don’t be absurd. She’s just a child herself.”
Catherine reddened angrily.
“I’ve had five babes of my own and there’s another on the way, nurse, so I think I know what I’m doing.”
She seated herself and bounced the baby on her knee. He crowed in delight. Simon had no discrimination, it seemed.
“What about you, Lady Hélène,” Catherine asked coldly, “do you have children? I assume, at your age, that you’re married.”
Catherine noted with pleasure the flash of annoyance in the lady’s brown eyes.
“I am a widow, my dear – and much sought after at that. And yes, I have two children – though they are girls, unfortunately. They’re delightful now they’re toddling about but I could never abide them as babies – whining sickly things. Like the other one there.”
“Little Bihan isn’t sickly, is he, Marie?”
“He’s a bit off colour today, my lady, but I don’t think it’s much. He’s off his feed, though, and that ain’t like him.”
“Keep him away from Lord Simon, Marie, please.”
“Yes, my lady, I’ll do that.”
There was a tap on the door.
“I’ll get it,” Catherine said hastily. If it was Ahmed, would he knock?
It was René Gilbert. Behind him was a page with a loaded tray.
“I thought you ladies would be here. I know how fond of babies you all are.” He smiled ingratiatingly and bowed deeply. “Your bed-chambers are prepared, fires are kindled and your clean gowns unpacked. I will conduct you, if you wish – but perhaps you will show the ladies to their quarters in the gate-house, Lady Catherine?”
“Well...yes, of course I will.”
“Though first we must find you something decent to wear! Give the baby to his nurse, Margot dear, and let us go.”
“Sévrine, remember what I said about...”
“Such a little fuss-pot,” Margot interrupted Catherine with a chuckle, getting to her feet and handing over the child. “And I’ll bet you were her nurse, weren’t you? Really, dear, nurse knows far better than you how to care for an infant. The babe has all he requires and his nurses are well fed and happy. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, my lady.” Sévrine grinned and bobbed a curtsey.
Ignoring the visiting ladies, Marie had already laid Bihan in his basket and was tucking into an ample portion of food from the tray.
“And drink plenty of good ale, girl, it helps the milk to flow.”
“Yes, my lady,” Marie mumbled obediently with her mouth full.
“There’s no call to worry, dear, though your devotion does you credit.”
Unable to argue, Catherine left the room anxiously, noticing with relief that René Gilbert left straight after them. She didn’t trust him.
Swept as if by a whirlwind into her own room, Catherine was bundled into a dark coloured gown and a sober veil was selected from several in her coffer. Without allowing her a moment to remove the padding which Odette had stuffed into her shift, she was then obliged to go with them to their own rooms. The ladies had hardly changed their gowns and neatened their hair and Catherine’s when a page came to conduct them to the hall for dinner.
There was still no sign of Lord Armand. Catherine was surprised to feel a pang of disappointment. The Count of Léon took the baron’s position at the centre of the High Table. Lady Margot sat to one side of him and Hélène to the other. Beyond Margot, Lord Roland du Plestin was seated and Lucien of Penmarch sat by his sister. After that the noblemen’s identities were unknown to Catherine.
She had hoped that there would not be room for her on the dais and that she would be able to be anonymous and unnoticed lower dow
n the hall. Her heart sank as she was led to a seat beside Lord Roland. It somersaulted in horror a few moments later when the young man called Guy was shown to the seat by her side. He grinned wolfishly at her and reached for his wine cup. Catherine turned frantically to the man on her left.
“Do you know everyone here, Lord Roland?” she gasped. “I’m afraid I don’t. Could you enlighten me, do you think?”
“I imagine Guy de Bégard knows more of them than me,” he began, his gaze shifting to the younger man. Then apparently noticing the desperate plea in Catherine’s eyes he continued, “but I’ll do my best, of course.”
Soothed by his kind voice, she managed to regain some of her composure as she tried to piece together family connections – sons, uncles, cousins. It was obvious after a while that Guy was now deep in conversation with the man to the far side of him.
“Who is he? The one beside me?” she asked Roland in a whisper.
“Baron Le Folgoet’s heir. Their land’s north of here, I think – it borders the Penmarch barony. They’re very wealthy and powerful.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you checking his credentials as a husband?”
“No!” she exclaimed, appalled, forgetting to moderate her voice.
“Why, du Plestin, are you bothering the lady?” Guy’s attention had been caught and his hot mocking eyes rested on Catherine’s flushed face.
“Of course not. Don’t be foolish.”
“But she looks distressed,” Guy exclaimed indignantly. “Come sweetheart; take a sip of wine to calm you.”
Ignoring her protests, he slipped one arm round her, with his free hand holding his cup to her lips. Trying not to choke as the liquid was tipped into her mouth, she was aware of the fingers of his left hand groping for her breast. Then, abruptly, he released her. Cheeks flaming, she shrank away from him. Guy unconcernedly drained the cup and turned back to his companion.
“Are you all right?” Roland asked softly.
“Yes,” she whispered, her head bowed; her heart was racing. To say any more might attract his attention again.
The rest of the meal seemed to take hours. Catherine longed to get away. When it was eventually over she would slip out into the courtyard, she told herself. She would go to the stables again and hide in a dark corner – or in the chapel! That was it. She could quite reasonably demand to be allowed to go and keep vigil by her mother’s body. The burial was to be early the following day.
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