“Have you been able to pay your respects to my mother yet, my lord?” Catherine asked Lord Roland as the servants brought the sweetmeats and fruit which would end the meal.
“Not yet, my dear.”
“Perhaps you would accompany me when dinner is over?”
“I would be glad to.”
A short while later they rose from the table. As the other guests made their way through into the solar, Catherine made her excuses to the ladies.
“We will join you a little later, dear,” Lady Margot told her. “At present we are still fatigued with travelling.”
“You are a very dutiful daughter,” Hélène said approvingly. “She just needs a firm guiding hand,” Catherine heard her saying to her sister-in-law as they moved away.
“Would you like to take mine?” asked Roland, smiling at the angry frown which darkened Catherine’s face.
“Thank you, my lord.”
His warm hand clasp felt comforting and nice.
“You can call me ‘uncle’, you know. That is what I am.”
“Very well, I will. Thank you...uncle.”
“If you’re ready then, my dear niece, shall we go?”
The chapel at Radenoc was a small upper room at the other end of the keep from the solar and bedchambers. Once it had been used as a guard-room – its slit windows were angled to overlook the steps leading up from the courtyard to the hall. Perhaps fittingly it had been Françoise who had demanded a place of worship within the castle. She had stitched the hangings and the altar-cloth and she now was the first to lie here awaiting burial.
Stout painted shutters kept out the daylight. Thick candles burned at the lady’s head and feet and the air was fragrant with incense. Lord Roland bent over his sister’s body, placing a soft kiss on her pale forehead. Then he crossed himself and knelt. Catherine sank to her knees by his side and bowed her head.
Of course, she was doing it again. It wasn’t really to pray for her mother’s soul that she had come up here. It was to escape from the suffocating attentions of the two ladies, not to mention Guy de Bégard. How vile he was. She hated the expression on his smooth, smug face, his horrible pouting lips – and his questing fingers. She remembered what Odette had said and shuddered. She had no intention of letting him have ‘a taste of the goods’, as Mistress Taloc had put it. The very idea made her stomach heave. But she must not think about it now, she must think about her mother. Surely there was no doubt at all that her soul would go to heaven. She had borne her burdens in life without complaining: she had been pious, gentle, good and true. She scarcely needed prayers. What Catherine would ask for, if God would listen, was that her father should not marry Odette. And that no-one would try to make her marry Guy de Bégard – but there, she was back to him again. Determinedly, she wrested her mind away from him and began a pater noster.
A long time later, rustling and whispered voices told Catherine that several of the noble guests had come to pay their respects to Lady Françoise. She resolutely kept her head bowed and her eyes closed. For a while she was left undisturbed, though around her she could hear murmurings of prayer. Inevitably, though, before long, a hand was laid on her shoulder.
“Come away now, my dear,” Hélène whispered. “You’ve kept your vigil long enough. Let others take your place.”
It crossed her mind to protest but the chapel was crowded, she saw. Reluctantly she stood and allowed herself to be led away.
She was surprised at how late it was. The hall’s high windows let in little light at any time but it was clear when they reached the solar that the sun was sinking. Lady Margot was sitting on one of the low divans with her feet up. Several of the gentlemen were also there, talking quietly together. Catherine tried to remember who Roland had said they were.
“How are you feeling now, dear?” Hélène asked Margot.
“Better, thank you.”
“Have you been feeling unwell, my lady?” Catherine asked. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s nothing, child. A little nausea, that’s all. It’s to be expected at this time, you see.”
“My mother always suffered from nausea when she was with child,” Catherine told her, sitting down by her side. “Veronique, her maid, used to brew a most effective tisane. I’m sure she would...”
“No, no, dear. All is well.”
“Perhaps if you didn’t indulge yourself so heartily at table you might feel better.” Lucien Kerboul, Margot’s big florid husband, was looking down at her with a grin. A number of the other lords had now entered the room.
“Really, husband, how can you? I eat like a bird.”
“Aye, a carrion crow!” There was a laugh. “Now, Margot, spare the girl and let the two young ones get better acquainted. Here’s de Bégard eager to pay court to Lady Catherine. We must play blind Cupid, it seems. I think Baron Le Folgoet plans to speak to Armand tomorrow.”
Catherine looked up in alarm. There Guy was, leering at her from over Lord Penmarch’s shoulder.
“I should really go and...”
“Nonsense, child. You two go over by the window. You can be quite private there. And we won’t be watching, will we, Hélène?”
“Please...”
The clustered faces were all smiling indulgently. Guy took her hand and she allowed herself to be helped to her feet.
“Now, you sit there, my lady...” He guided her close to the window. “And if I sit here, they can barely see us at all.”
His body blocked Catherine’s view of the room. She felt sick.
“As Lord Penmarch said, we should get to know each other.”
She tried to free her hand but he held onto it, carrying it to his wet lips. She tried to speak but the words somehow refused to come.
“I find you very attractive, my dear,” he murmured softly.
“I thought you said I looked like a maypole.” Her voice sounded sulky and peevish, even to her own ears.
“That was just a jest.” He smiled broadly, revealing flashing white teeth. “Now you look quite charming and you have so much to offer a man...”
“You mean my father is rich.”
“Little innocent. I mean these.”
Before she realised what he was going to do, he pulled her into his embrace. His mouth stifled her protest and one hand roughly fondled her padded breasts. As he forced his tongue between her lips she gagged, hardly able to breathe. Just as she began to think that she was going to faint or die, he released her. Trembling, close to tears, she shrank as far away from him as she could, fiercely pulling her rumpled gown and veil back into place.
“I should think that must have been your first kiss,” the hateful voice continued smugly. “You’ll remember it for ever.”
“Oh, I’ll remember all right!” Catherine spat the words out, facing him furiously. “It was hateful! I’ve never...”
But he was looking at her chest, grinning, starting to laugh.
“You cunning wench!” he exclaimed, making a grab for her.
She twisted her face away, trying to avoid the expected kiss. To her amazed horror, this time he forced his hand into the neck of her gown and inside her shift. A moment later he pulled it out, let her go and sprang to his feet, waving something in the air.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, spluttering with laughter, “I have in my hand the fair left breast of Lady Catherine de Metz!”
Frozen to the seat, Catherine looked down at her chest. One padded swelling was in place – the other was gone. Around the room now there were voices raised in question and exclamation. These gave way to a ripple of amusement which rapidly turned into guffaws and bellows of laughter as Guy unwound the strip of fabric and then swept it through the air like a pennant.
“Who wants to see her right one?”
As he bounded back towards her, Catherine leapt to her feet and flung herself across the room to the staircase. Stumbling, tripping on her skirts, she ran headlong up to her room, crashing the bar in place across the
door. She tore the other pad out from inside her shift and hurled it away from her. When she was finally sure that she was safe, that no-one had followed her, she flung herself on the bed, sobbing with fury and humiliation.
Much later Catherine woke up. She still lay across the bed. Eventually, having exhausted herself with crying, she must have fallen asleep where she was. What had disturbed her? The castle was completely quiet and it must be late.
She clambered off the bed and went to the window. Yes, everywhere was dark and deserted. Then, from higher up the tower came the thin wailing cry of young baby.
Simon! She had forgotten about him! She had been so busy wallowing in her own distress that she had not made sure he was safe.
She opened her chamber door and ventured cautiously out into the passageway. A torch burned in its sconce further down, giving off a flickering red light. She ran swiftly towards the stairs, pausing in the archway to look up towards the nursery. The door was open and light spilled out onto the steps. Something was wrong.
Heart thudding, Catherine pulled up her skirts and leaped up the stairs two at a time. When she reached the door she stopped, cautiously peering round it. What she saw made her freeze in horror. Ahmed was bending over the cradle and he had something in his hand.
“No!” she screamed, throwing herself violently at him.
The sudden attack took him by surprise. He stumbled. His grip on flask was loosened and it crashed to the floor. But he was only momentarily shaken. He pushed Catherine away and she fell. As she scrambled up she saw the knife in his hand.
“Sévrine! Marie! Help me!” Catherine cried.
She was behind the cradle now. Ahmed, beyond it, had his back to the door.
“They sleep soundly – they cannot hear you,” Ahmed said. He sounded pleased.
Bihan, in his basket by the fire, began to wail fretfully. It was his cry she had heard, not Simon’s. Rhythmic snores came from the closet. Was she too late? Was Simon already dead? She took a step forward, peering down anxiously.
“You stay where you are, little lady.” He jerked the knife towards her. “You think that you have spoiled my plan – but I can still cut baby’s throat.”
“You won’t get away with it. I’ll tell them it was you! The Count of Léon will...”
“Quiet!” he hissed. “The Count wants Lord Gilles to be baron. He will not listen to you. Little Catherine will not think she is so clever any more when Father is dead and she belongs to Guy de Bégard!”
The mention of his name sparked a sudden burst of fury in Catherine. She rushed at the cradle, driving it with all her strength into Ahmed’s body. As the heavy carved rockers hit his legs, he lost his balance and fell heavily, the knife flying from his hand and slithering across the floor towards the door. Ahmed crawled desperately after it, grabbed it and then struggled once more to his feet.
“Now then,” he panted, starting to turn round to face Catherine again.
She didn’t give him a chance. Using the cradle like a battering ram, she ran at him.
There was only a narrow landing outside the door and the stairs themselves were steep. This time the blow struck the back of his legs. He gave a shriek, his arms flailing, and then he toppled over. Catherine heard thumps and crashes as he was buffeted against stone steps and stone walls on the way down. Then there was silence.
Only now did Catherine look at Simon. He hadn’t stirred at all but slept on, oblivious. She put her hand to his cheek. His skin was warm, his breathing unhurried and regular. All seemed to be well. She pushed the cradle, which now seemed to be surprisingly heavy, back to its usual place. A plaintive wail rose from Bihan. Catherine moved across to him and looked down. He was flushed and when she lifted him, he seemed to her to be feverish and hot. But she daren’t spend too long soothing him. Perhaps Ahmed would be back. Perhaps the fall had only winded him. She had a sudden terrifying vision of him dragging himself, knife in hand, back up the stairs to finish what he had begun. She supposed she could stay here and bar the door. But no. She couldn’t wait here for ever. She must go and see.
Catherine took a torch from one of the brackets and went to the door. Raising it high, she peered down the stair-well. She could see nothing. Had he gone? Her heart lurched and she forced herself slowly to make the steep descent. At the bottom, by the curtained entrance to the solar, something lay. Thank God. It was Ahmed. He was still there.
She ran down the remaining steps and stood beside him, looking down at his limp form. Then very gingerly, she touched him with her foot, half expecting his hand to reach out and grab her ankle. He didn’t stir. She prodded him more firmly. Still nothing. Was he dead? Or just unconscious? She must find someone who would know. But who? Whom could she trust? Sternly she repressed a tide of panic which threatened to well up inside her. She would look for Captain Rénard. He would help her; he would know.
Although no-one was likely to be in the solar now, Catherine still peeped cautiously round the curtain before venturing out into the room. It was dark and quiet. So was the hall. But then, as she reached the door, she heard a sound. Someone was coming down the stairs from the chapel. Who could it be? It might be Guy! Reason told her that he was not the type for pious vigils. It might be her uncle. She prayed fervently that it was him. She clutched the torch tightly in a slightly shaky hand and waited.
Chapter Five
“Michel Gilbert!” The wave of relief almost made Catherine drop the torch. “Oh, Michel, what are you doing here?”
“Catti! I was only given leave a while ago. I said I wanted to pay my respects to your mother. I thought you’d be asleep.”
“I was...” She swallowed hard and tightened her grip on the torch. “Michel, would know whether someone was dead or not?”
“I expect so, yes, but...”
“Don’t say anything. Come with me.”
She took his hand and led him back to where Ahmed lay. He didn’t seem to have moved.
“There. Is he dead?”
Michel knelt and turned the body over, searching for signs of life. After a few moments he looked up at Catherine. His face was grim.
“I’m afraid his neck is broken,” he said.
The torch wobbled alarmingly in Catherine’s hand as she began to shake. Michel stood up and took the flambeau from her, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“Steady,” he said gently. “Who was he?”
“My father’s servant. His name was Ahmed. You’re absolutely sure? He’s definitely dead?”
“No doubt about it.”
“Thank God!”
“Catherine! I’m shocked. Surely you’re not glad?”
“I am. I’m delighted. I hated him and he tried to kill my little brother. But what should we do now? We can’t leave him here.”
“If he was your father’s servant then your father should decide.”
“You’re right, yes. Can you carry help me carry him, do you think? He isn’t very big.”
“I can probably do it myself if you take the torch. But shouldn’t we summon the guard?”
“No. I don’t want anyone else to know. Come on. This way.”
She preceded Michel out onto the battlements and across to the western tower. The door at the bottom stood ajar and a torch burned on the stairs.
“Up here,” Catherine said. “My father’s room is at the top. Can you manage?”
“Yes. Though he’s getting pretty heavy.”
Everything was silent and still on the narrow landing outside Armand’s chamber. Catherine reached for the door handle and turned it. The latch clicked but the door didn’t move. It was barred from inside. Armand took no chances, it seemed.
“Who’s there?” The baron’s voice was hoarse. “Is it you, Ahmed?”
“No, it’s Catherine, Father. I need to speak to you.”
“Very well. Wait for a moment.”
“Stay out here with the body, Michel, until I’ve told him,” Catherine whispered to her companion.
“
Right.”
There was a scraping sound as the bar was shifted.
“You may enter now.”
When she saw her father, Catherine was appalled. If he had looked frail when she saw him last, now he looked a hundred times worse. She could not have argued now with anyone who had described him as a living corpse. Surely he must be dying.
“Father, what’s wrong? You’re ill!”
“I shall be better. I have been worse.” He seated himself in the great carved chair as he spoke. “But you did not come here to talk of my health. To discuss marriage plans, perhaps?”
“Hardly!” A revolted shudder ran through her. “Father, I can’t put it tactfully: Ahmed is dead. I’m sorry.”
“Are you? I thought you disliked him.”
“I...”
“How did it happen?”
“He was trying to harm Simon! I had to protect him!”
“So you killed him.” There was a strange gleam in Armand’s cold green eyes.
“I pushed him and he fell. His neck is broken.”
“And Simon?”
“Simon is well. He suffered no harm.”
“I see. You are indeed my daughter. I must thank you. What have you done with the body?”
“It’s outside. Michel Gilbert carried him.”
“Gilbert? One of René’s sons?”
Catherine nodded.
“Who else knows about this?”
“No-one, Father.”
“What about the peasant wench – Simon’s nurse?”
“Asleep. Drugged by Ahmed, I think.”
“That’s well.”
“But Father, are you not sad that Ahmed is dead? He’s been with you for years, hasn’t he?”
“Too many years, perhaps. His hold on me had become very strong. I have realised that in the last few days. I had not thought it would be so hard to...But enough of that. Listen, Catherine, we’ll have the body quietly disposed of – Gilbert can do that, can he not? And Ahmed’s possessions, everything in his room, let them be burned.” He had reached out to grip Catherine’s hand and his eyes glittered in the dim light. “Do it yourself! Keep nothing. Promise me!”
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