Armand's Daughter

by Diana Dickinson

  Catherine was unsure whether it was because of orders from Lord Armand or because of the letter she had sent to the bishop, but in May, not long after her birthday, Father Hervé packed up his belongings and left his snug dwelling next to the stone-built church. A few weeks passed before the new incumbent arrived and he couldn’t have more different from his predecessor. Unlike Father Hervé who was old, fat and self-indulgent, Father Alain du Val was young, thin and self-denying. He insisted in his first meeting with Armand, at which Catherine was also present, that he had no need of the luxuries which his house possessed. He demanded that most of the furnishings and livestock be distributed amongst the poor of Kerhouazoc and told the baron that he had no need to eat at the castle’s High Table on Feast Days – a custom upon which Hervé had insisted – and was only eventually and reluctantly persuaded to continue. He was only prepared to keep his household servants when Armand, with some amusement, reminded him that he was providing them with bed and board by doing so.

  The young priest had been born in the market town of Locronan, a mere twenty miles from Radenoc. He had found his vocation at a young age and been proud to enter the great seminary at Morlaix. Since his ordination, he had travelled extensively in France and Normandy but he seemed to be glad now to have returned to his home.

  Catherine quickly decided that she liked him – he was caring and sincere – but the local people were slow to make up their minds. Of course he spoke their language but he was also determined to stamp out the last lingering traces of Celtic paganism: there would be no more celebrations of the mid-summer or mid-winter solstice, no more orgies or human sacrifice to mark the festival of Lugh. Some people were glad; others resented his interference in their traditions. Catherine was surprised that when he broached the subject with her father, Lord Armand made no attempt to dissuade him, calmly agreeing to support him in wiping out such heathen practices. She wondered whether Father Alain knew about the baron’s former involvement in the rites. She also wondered if his agreement showed that he felt guilty and wanted to atone for what he had done. But she did not dare to ask him.

  There was one interesting piece of news which the young priest had brought with him. There was going to be a second Crusade. Although he had not been there himself, Father Alain had heard accounts of the amazing speech which Bernard of Clairvaux had given a few months before at Vezelay. He described it to those on High Table on one of the rare occasions when he dined in the Hall. Thousands had flocked to the small town near Paris to hear the great orator and saint, he told them. Having listened to his words, all had eagerly embraced the Holy cause.

  “And when do they depart for Outremer?” Armand asked.

  “It’s not known, my lord. King Louis’s men are still travelling far and wide, recruiting soldiers for Christ. They say the Abbot has gone south now to Aquitaine.”

  “Were you thinking of offering your sword, my lord?” said René Gilbert to the baron with a smile.

  “I think not... though I would not be sorry to feel the hot desert sun on my face once more. But are you yourself not tempted? There are fortunes to be won.”

  “My fighting days are over,” said the steward. “I believe I am too old and too soft.”

  “Too old? Nonsense! You are barely older than Gilles and he clearly considers himself to be very much a fighting man.”

  “Your older son is assisting Lord Léon in a border dispute with the Count of Tréguier, I believe?”

  “That is correct, Father. Gilles is always assisting him in some dispute or other.” Armand’s tone was bitter.

  “And yet I understand that Tréguier is to lead the Breton force,” said the priest.

  “No doubt they will set aside their differences when they march against the Infidel,” said René Gilbert.

  “No doubt they will,” Armand agreed. “You seem to be well informed, Father. Do you know if Léon intends to join the Crusade?”

  “Not as far as I know, my lord.”

  “You do not surprise me. Such noble causes are not for him.”

  Talk turned to more local subjects and Catherine lost interest. So, it appeared, did the baron. He sat abstracted, staring into the distance. When the steward asked him a question, he didn’t seem to hear it. Catherine decided that he was remembering his time in those far off lands. Evidently his recollections pleased him as a slight smile twisted his thin lips. But his eyes were cold. Catherine decided that, whatever his thoughts were, she did not wish to share them. Their subject-matter seemed to be confirmed as the meal ended.

  “If you hear further news of the expedition, Father, I would be glad if you would tell me,” the baron told the priest as they rose from the table.

  “Certainly, my lord. I receive correspondence not infrequently from a chaplain in Lord Tréguier’s household. I will happily tell you what I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  However inspiring Saint Bernard’s words had been, the months slipped by without news of the army’s imminent departure.

  On August 26th it was Simon’s birthday. Father Alain blessed the child and a joyous feast was held. To her great delight, on this special occasion, Marie was allowed to sit at the High Table with the baby on her lap. The nurse looked as pleased and proud as if the baby had been her own. He was almost walking now and was as handsome as ever. He had a thick mop of dark hair but had retained his mother’s periwinkle blue eyes. Catherine adored him.

  Christmas came. Father Alain held Mass in the castle but refused to dine with its inhabitants afterwards. His place was with the poor and needy, he told Armand sternly. To her delight, Catherine managed to persuade him to silence his conscience for once and join in with their revels on Twelfth Night. When the cake was cut, to her surprise, she found the dried pea was in her slice: Michel Gilbert had the bean so together they were the Lord and Lady of Misrule.

  What fun it was! They could command anyone to do anything, however silly and undignified – and they did. If their victims refused they had to pay a forfeit but no-one objected. Michel was extremely inventive, dreaming up all sorts of ‘turns’ that the men-at-arms, their wives and the squires must perform. Catherine did her best to vie with him and the Hall rang with laughter. She would never have believed that Father Alain COULD stand on his head, let alone that he would do so at her command! Even Lord Armand had donned a garland of evergreens and sung a nursery song. René Gilbert, blind-fold, had danced a jig with one of the kitchen wenches. Finally, to cap it all, after imbibing an unaccustomed quantity of mead and ale, the young priest told a succession of bawdy jokes then went to sleep with his head on his trencher.

  Catherine was afraid he would be angry the next day, but he was not. He said his aching head was a just punishment for his frailty then set off to visit a sick woman living miles away across the parish.

  “The fresh air will set me to rights,” he said with a laugh. “You should join me, my lady.”

  “Probably I should. But I shall sit by the fire instead.”

  Catherine wanted to be stay at home and mull over a quite startling thought which had occurred to her that morning. She and Michel had made an excellent team at the feast – everyone said so. She had always liked him; they still spent a lot of time in each other’s company and rarely disagreed about anything. Tristan’s image had long since faded from her mind: he was like the hero of a legend, not a real man of flesh and blood. But Michel was. Gradually she had found that it was Michel Gilbert’s face which was being substituted for the elusive minstrel’s in her day-dreams. She even found herself looking at his smooth firm lips and wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him. As he never gave her the slightest hint that he might wish to, she said nothing, of course.

  But this morning it had suddenly struck her that he would make her an ideal husband. Lord Armand, quite recently, had commented that she had changed.

  “You are not a child any longer, Catherine,” he had observed, his searching gaze travelling over her new, more curvaceous shape.
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  She had blushed, she remembered, and had tried to change the subject. But it was impossible to distract her father from a topic that he was determined to pursue. He had turned her face to the light and scrutinised it intently.

  “You’re becoming a pretty girl,” he had said, “it won’t be hard to find you a husband.”

  She hadn’t felt pretty. There had been an unsightly blemish on her chin, she recalled, and now she had others on her forehead: they appeared all too often these days AND her freckles hadn’t faded as Sévrine had said they would. She had stupid great eyes like a cow’s and they were muddy brown, not brilliant flashing blue. No amount of washing with chamomile infusions had had any effect on her hair – it was still the colour of rotten plums. Fortunately, it was usually hidden from view. She and Brigitte had agreed that she was a hopeless case: Simon had the only beauty in the family.

  She had told her father coldly that she had no intention of marrying and in any case, who would look after her brother if she left Radenoc? Armand had made a vague reply and then had spoken of other things.

  But this, now, was the answer. If she married Michel Gilbert she could stay where she was. When Baron Le Folgoet had spoken for his vile son, her father had said that he wouldn’t split up his domain to give her a dowry. Perhaps he had been joking – but this way he wouldn’t have to. Michel was used to her and certainly didn’t behave as if her ugliness repelled him. As far as she knew, there was no other girl he was sweet on. She never seen him with anyone – and Brigitte would have told her if she had – nothing happened in Lanhalles or Kerhouazoc without her knowledge. Yes, this was it! She hugged the knowledge of it to herself in delight. But what should she do about it? Should she speak first to Michel or to her father? In some ways it would be easier to speak to Lord Armand then he could simply give his squire his orders. But perhaps, first, she would subtly sound Michel out.

  Dinner that day was a subdued affair as most of the diners were recovering from the previous day’s excesses. The baron kept to his room, resting. Catherine managed to call Michel into the solar on the pretext of discussing the progress of Belle, her roan mare’s strained fetlock. Le Pennec had been poulticing it and it seemed to be doing well.

  “I have something to tell you,” Michel said excitedly as soon as they were seated by the glowing brazier. “Your father told me this morning and it’s a secret from everyone else but I can tell you.”

  “What is it?” Catherine asked. Perhaps her father had simultaneously had the same idea.

  “I might be going to the Crusade.”

  “What? How can you? Don’t be absurd!” He couldn’t, not now! It would spoil all her plans.

  “I don’t mean on my own, stupid!”

  “You’re not saying my father’s going?” The idea was shocking. “But he’s old! He’s ill! He’d never get a hundred miles let alone a thousand!”

  “No, of course not. If you’re just going to jump about and shout I’ll not say any more. What was it you wanted to ask me?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Michel.” She forced herself to sit down again and gripped her hands tightly in her lap. “It was just such a surprise. I...I... don’t like the thought of you going away, that’s all.” She didn’t dare look at him and she knew she was blushing.

  He put his hand over hers.

  “I’m touched that you care.”

  Catherine’s cheeks burned hotter still. His hand was warm and strong. He wore a silver ring and one of his nails was ragged. As his hand moved away she felt both loss and relief.

  “You’d better explain,” she murmured, still not daring to look up. Every part of her was conscious of his closeness.

  “Lord Armand has decided that Lord Gilles is to join the Crusade,” Michel said. “He wants me to go along too. He has a special task for me to perform which will take ‘much courage and devotion’...but he hasn’t told me what it is yet.”

  “But you agreed?”

  “It’s not a question of agreeing. You ladies don’t understand service, do you? You don’t swear fealty ‘when it suits you’. I’m the baron’s man, unto death, whatever he commands.”

  “It sounds idiotic to me,” Catherine snapped, anger helping her to regain her composure.

  “It’s how it is, Catherine.”

  “But, anyway, why should Gilles allow you to go along too? He has squires of his own, I assume.”

  “He could take one more.”

  “Why should he?”

  “Your father has contacts out there – merchants that he traded with – he’ll give me details of where they’re to be found and I can tell your brother.”

  “Why can’t my father tell him himself?”

  “Really, Catherine, what’s wrong with you today? I wouldn’t normally be given my spurs for three or four years yet but I’ll probably win them early now, in battle. Aren’t you pleased at my good fortune?”

  “No. What, to be given the chance to go and be butchered by some heathens? I don’t think that’s good fortune at all. You’d do better to stay at home.”

  “Heaven spare us, you sound like a nagging wife!”

  “Oh!” Catherine gasped.

  “But you are not my wife, I am happy to say, so I shall go or not as my master and his son determine – and without asking your permission. Good day to you!”

  He stood abruptly and marched furiously out of the chamber. Catherine ran upstairs to her room and desperately tried to order her chaotic thoughts.

  Several days went by. Michel was frostily polite to Catherine and she behaved equally coldly in return. Armand’s amused, knowing eyes watched them both. At night Catherine sobbed into her pillow. She was in love with him, she was sure of it. She ached for the loss of their friendship but was determined that she would do nothing to mend it. When Gilles came and refused permission for Michel to go with him then, then, humbled and chastened, he would beg her forgiveness. Until then she wouldn’t say anything to her father about her plan. She could wait – but it was difficult, especially when she kept on dreaming that he was holding her in his arms.

  Lord Armand had sent for his older son to tell him his plans but weeks went by with no word from him. Easter passed and then Catherine’s fourteenth birthday. She and Michel no longer behaved like sworn enemies but their easy friendship was gone. With the milder weather the baron occasionally ventured out on horseback but it tired him and the excursions became less and less frequent.

  Michel was receiving intensive weapons training from the sergeant-at-arms and Lord Armand appeared to take pleasure in watching the boy’s progress. He would have a chair carried out to the tilt-yard and would call out advice and encouragement. Catherine watched once or twice but, not wishing to betray any interest in the squire’s talents or safety, she resisted the strong temptation to have another chair brought out for herself. She was sure that her father was aware of all of this, but she refused to acknowledge it.

  Instead she sought Yon’s company and they frequently went down to Lanhalles together. She loved listening to the stories that the old folk would tell as they sat round mending the nets. She even managed to persuade Yves Rivoallon to tell the tale of Lady Eleanor’s daring escape from Radenoc. Armand had meted out a savage vengeance to those in the hamlet and the castle whom he had suspected of helping her. Apparently the captain of the guard and many others had been executed and the fishermen’s houses had been destroyed. It increased Catherine’s distrust of her father and she avoided his company as well as Michel’s for some time after she had heard what had happened. Yves had a son, now middle-aged, called Tanguy after his grandfather. Tanguy’s eldest son was called Yves.

  “Life and death,” Edain said. “They’re both part of the cycle. We can’t stop it.”

  “But you can see death in advance,” Catherine said with a shudder.

  “Aye, sometimes.”

  “Looks like there’s a storm comin’,” Anne Kerber observed.

  There were dark clouds to the east, over towards
the castle, and Catherine saw a distant flicker of lightning.

  “Aye,” said Edain.

  She hadn’t looked up from the barrel she was filling and several of those near her made the crossed finger sign. Surreptitiously, Catherine did the same.

  Shortly afterwards she and Yon took their leave. Belle was nervous and skittish in the freshening wind and Yon agreed to go accompany Catherine back to Radenoc. When they reached the stables, Michel greeted them, big with news.

  “There’s been a messenger from your brother,” he told Catherine. “He’s arriving tomorrow. I’ve been looking for my father as Lord Gilles’ quarters in the North Tower need to be prepared at once. Have you seen him?”

  “No,” said Catherine shortly, irritated by Michel’s obvious excitement. “I’ve been out of the castle.”

  “I’ll try the gatehouse again. I can’t think where he is.”

  “P’raps boss’ll want some help again,” Yon said when Michel had gone. “He’ll bring a troop with him – bound to.” Yon beamed in anticipation. He’d missed helping in the stables but when the castle was so quiet they had no need of him. “Hoy! Le Pennec! Shall I come an’ give you a hand on the morrow?”

  Le Pennec gave a wheezy chuckle.

  “Well, you can, lad, of course. But you might not want to. His lordship’s of the same sort as the Count, you know. An’ you might take his fancy with your pretty golden curls.”

  He ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “Oh, drat it! If he’s like that I’ll keep well clear. I haven’t forgotten what it were like when that other one started pawin’ at me – not to mention that damned hay, beggin’ your pardon, Catherine.”