“I think you’re ashamed of your mortal sins and want me to pray for your soul at the temple in Jerusalem!” he declared. “Am I right?”
Thank God, he was drunk – and quite possibly stupid as well.
“Would you, if I asked you?”
“Hardly! You don’t know me very well if you think I would even consider such a request.”
“And you don’t know me very well if you think that I would ask it. Bring more wine, Michel. Lord Gilles’s cup is empty. Catherine, go and play with your little brother. Our talk can have no interest for you.”
“Yes, Father.” She hadn’t been sure that he’d known she was there. She shouldn’t underestimate him.
“You may live to regret your decision, Gilles,” Armand was saying as she went through the curtain and started to climb the stairs.
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
What was going to happen now? Would he just give up if Gilles didn’t agree to do as he wished? He could hardly murder his own son in cold blood – could he? Gilles evidently had powerful friends.
That night, again with the excuse of seeing that her father was well, she went up to Armand’s chamber. This time he was not in bed but seated at the table, writing.
“What do you want, Catherine? I am busy.”
He had barely glanced at her.
“I just wondered, Father....About Gilles.”
“Gilles?” He looked up and smiled grimly. “You need not be concerned about him, I assure you. Good night.”
“Good night,” she murmured faintly, turning away. He had said nothing to comfort her – far from it.
Michel was coming rapidly up the stairs towards her. He paused abruptly as soon as he saw her, moving aside to let her pass.
“Michel?” she said softly, touching his sleeve with her hand. “Is everything all right?”
“Leave me be, Catherine. Your father wants me.”
He’s piqued because he can’t go to the Holy Land, Catherine thought as she continued on her way, just as she had known he’d be. Strangely, the thought gave her little satisfaction.
After two nights with little or no rest, that night Catherine fell into exhausted sleep as soon as she was in bed. It seemed like only minutes later that she was woken by someone banging frantically on her chamber door.
“Mistress! My lady! Lady Catherine, quickly!” It was Brigitte’s voice. She was screaming, terrified.
Catherine leapt off the bed and ran to unbar the door.
“What is it?”
“Quick, quick, you must do something! They’re hanging him!”
“Hanging who? Is it Gilles?”
“Yes, yes! Come on!”
Just as she was, in her shift, bare-foot, with her hair loose, she ran after Brigitte. In the courtyard there was uproar, people running here and there, shouting, screaming. A rope was hanging from the castle walls. From it dangled the body of a man. Was it Gilles? No, it couldn’t be for there was Gilles below it, bellowing in rage. Who was it then? The face was contorted, purple, agonised. The clothes gave no hint: the thing wore only a shirt, its legs and feet were bare.
But here was René Gilbert, shouting, crying.
“You’ve killed my son, God damn you! You’ve killed my son!”
Catherine faltered, stumbled, a terrible realisation sweeping through her. The thing over there was Michel Gilbert, her friend... more than her friend – he was her love, her future husband!
“No!” she screamed, falling to her knees.
Gilles had spotted her and strode towards her, eyes blazing.
“I expect you were in this conspiracy too, were you? By God, I’ll make you pay!”
He seized her arm and dragged her into the Hall. Only dimly aware of what was happening, Catherine attempted to resist but was powerless against her brother. He pulled her along relentlessly, into the solar and up the steps onto the battlements beyond.
“What are you doing?” she gasped. “Let me go. I’ve done nothing...”
He didn’t bother to answer but half carried her up the stairs of the tower, dumping her on the floor while he hammered on the door of Armand’s chamber.
“Open up!” he yelled. “Open this door!”
“Father, don’t!” Catherine screamed. “He’ll kill you!”
But the door was being unbarred. It opened, slowly.
“Well?” Armand seemed completely calm. “Did you want something?”
Gilles burst in across the threshold and Catherine staggered in after him. Armand was standing in the centre of the room, his green eyes glittering in a chalk white face.
“Don’t try to deny what you plotted. There’s no point. The boy was a coward after all – after he had bungled it, he talked.”
“I have no intention of denying it. I’m only sorry it didn’t work.”
Armand lifted a pile of papers from the table and dropped them into the brazier. Flames leaped up round them. Gilles gave a snarl of rage.
“Is no crime too foul for you?” he said, fists clenched.
“I don’t believe so.” Incredibly, Armand smiled. “Incest, murder, fratricide – I’ve committed them all. I stopped short of patricide – just – and I don’t have your taste for buggery. Bestiality, now, that never appealed. Can you recommend it?”
Like a cur that has suddenly broken his chain, Gilles threw himself at the old man, his hands at his throat. Catherine flung herself onto them, pummelling Gilles on the back and head, screaming at him to let go. A choking, gasping noise was coming from the baron’s throat. Suddenly Gilles released him and threw him contemptuously down.
“He doesn’t deserve a quick, painless death,” he panted. “I’d much rather he suffered. Send me word when he’s dead, sister,” he made it sound like a curse, “and I’ll return to take up my inheritance.”
Without another word he left the chamber, his footsteps echoing dully as he descended the stairs.
“Father! Father, speak to me! Father!” The terrible rasping, choking noise continued. “Oh, help me! Somebody help me!”
Then, behind her in the open doorway, there was René Gilbert. Unspeaking, grim-faced, he lifted Armand and laid him on the bed.
The laboured breathing went on but the bluish tinge was fading from the baron’s face.
“Is he dying?” Catherine asked, terrified eyes fixed on Armand’s face. However terrible his crimes were, he was her only shield against her brother.
“I don’t know, my lady, and frankly, I don’t care. I came to take my leave of him. I’ll take my son’s body and retire to my manor – with your permission, that is.”
His tone was flat, insulting. She could hardly blame him.
“I am so sorry, René,” she whispered. “I was very fond of your son. I hoped...” For the first time a great lump swelled in her throat as the truth of what had happened started to dawn on her. “I did not know what they planned,” she continued, desperately forcing her tears back. There would be time to weep later. “It... it’s such a waste.”
“There’s a kind of justice, too, Catherine, if the truth were told.” René Gilbert’s voice was bleak. “I lured a son of Armand’s to his death, years ago – I was about Michel’s age – so now we’re even.”
“A son of Armand’s? What son? Who was it?”
“The Lady Eleanor’s boy. In Normandy. In 1124.”
“You’ve not forgotten it, then...”
“You don’t forget something like that. We were friends – ironic, isn’t it? And your father has rewarded me well for my service. Farewell, my lady. I’ll go now. Shall I send your maid?”
“Yes, René. Please do. Goodbye.”
She held out her hand. He took it, raised it momentarily to his lips, then turned away.
Remarkably, the next morning, Armand was still alive. Another day passed and then another. Still the baron clung to life. Gilles had left on the day of the hanging, as soon as his men could be gathered. Catherine drea
ded his return and directed Captain Rénard to bar the gates and strengthen the castle’s defences. There was no sign of him, however, and the rumour was that he had returned to Léon’s castle, further east. Catherine allowed the guards to relax their vigilance, slightly.
By the time a week had gone by, the threat of Armand’s immediate death seemed to have passed. The attack had left him partially paralysed. The muscles down his right side seemed to be frozen. His left seemed a little better although he could not move unaided, nor could he speak. On advice from Alain du Val Catherine sent to the Abbey at Point Saint Mathieu – the monks there were skilled at healing – and Brother Jean came immediately to Catherine’s aid. He praised the good sense behind her treatment of her father so far: she had merely kept him warm and as comfortable as possible, spooning broth into his mouth whenever he would let her. She had resorted neither to leeches nor amulets though Brigitte and Marie had suggested both.
With Father Alain and Brother Jean to support and help her, Catherine felt as if the worst crisis had passed. Now she could grieve over Michel’s death and now she could – and did – start to worry over what the future would bring. But not just yet. While Armand lived, Gilles could do nothing. Captain Rénard would obey her commands. Radenoc was under her control.
June was slipping by. For most of each day Catherine sat by her father’s bed, talking to him, chatting inconsequentially of anything she could think of. As, gradually, his faculties returned, so did his anger and frustration at his physical weakness. He would grunt and twitch, desperately trying to move or speak. Had Gilles designed his revenge on his father deliberately, he could not have improved on this torture. Then one day, as Catherine was valiantly describing the pattern of a new embroidered belt she intended to make, she was startled to hear her father saying a recognisable word.
“What?” she cried, sure she must have imagined it. “What did you say?”
Armand took a deep breath.
“Read,” he said. The word was slurred but unmistakable.
“But I can’t,” Catherine protested.
“Learn. Read.”
Drool slid down his chin from the effort he had made. When Father Alain visited later he determinedly repeated the same words, jerking his head at Catherine.
“He evidently wants me to teach you to read, Lady Catherine. What do you say?”
“I’d be glad to. I was running out topics to talk about!”
For the first time since Michel had died she laughed. In Armand’s eyes there was an answering gleam.
Over the next two weeks Armand’s speech steadily improved. He regained some use of his left hand but it was unlikely that he would ever walk again. A month later Brother Jean said that it was time for him to return to the monastery.
“Lord Armand will probably get no better,” the monk explained. “But he should get no worse, for the time being at any rate.”
“How long can he live like this?”
“It’s hard to say. The first month is crucial. What they recover then, they keep. After that, often there’s little change. But with a devoted nurse like you, he could last years.”
Catherine had thanked him and sent him on his way with a generous donation for his Abbey.
As the months drifted by, it appeared that Brother Jean was right. Another Christmas drew near, came, and was gone again. With the spring a messenger came from Gilles. Under heavy guard he was taken to visit Armand. They’d helped the baron out of bed and dressed him. He had been seated at the table, apparently dealing with his papers, when the man was admitted. Catherine wanted him to have first-hand proof that her father lived. As she’d known he would, Armand put on a convincing performance. His voice barely shook and he completely concealed his lack of mobility. But the effort taxed him severely. Later Catherine and the servants had to lift him, gasping, back to bed when the man had gone, and she worried in case the strain had caused a set-back. The next day he seemed to be as before so she breathed again.
Armand had shown no wish for a new personal squire. Two stout scullions and Catherine herself did all he required. While he rarely thanked her, Catherine knew that he appreciated what she did. Although Simon tired him, he saw the boy, growing fast now, for part of every day. Catherine had quickly mastered her letters and she had been astounded at the world of wonder and delight which was opened by her new-found ability. Armand had bought books on his travels, precious gilded volumes and other battered ones tied together with string. Father Alain had others – and not just religious works. Even when her father dozed she frequently read on, entranced by the stories, descriptions and even by obscure philosophical debates.
The only activities lost to her were her visits to Kerhouazoc and Lanhalles – she didn’t dare leave Radenoc even for half an hour. She encouraged Yon to come up to the castle, however, and through him she kept in touch with her friends. As she now ordered Radenoc’s affairs, she could implement the changes which she had previously considered to be desirable. The result was gratifying. The local people were not only better fed but more willing to serve. As a result the castle had a little less but the peasants had a great deal more. She considered it to be very satisfactory.
Autumn came again. The harvest had been excellent and all about there was an air of cheerful prosperity. At Christmas Catherine risked holding a modest feast in the Hall, praying that Gilles wouldn’t arrive to spoil it. Rumour said he was plundering the lands of the Count of Tréguier, many leagues away. There were severe storms in February and she sent out castle servants to help repair the cottages at Lanhalles. The fisher-folk stalwartly refused to shelter in the castle but they didn’t reject blankets, vats of hot pottage or dry firewood.
Then, in late summer, when news had come through Father Alain that the French army, soundly beaten, had straggled home from the Holy Land, Armand suffered another seizure. At once Catherine sent for Brother Jean but this time she was told it was hopeless.
“He has a few days, no more. You should send for his son.”
The days dragged by and still Catherine hesitated. Was it wise to ask for the forces of retribution to crash down upon her head? Lord Armand might rally – he might recover – he had before. But if he did not and Gilles hadn’t been told, might not his vengeance be even worse? The third day after his relapse, Catherine sent for Captain Rénard.
“We must send for my brother, I’m afraid,” she told him with a sigh. They were in Armand’s tower chamber, standing by the open window.
“Those of us who know you will protect you as far as we can, my lady.”
“Thank you, captain. I know you will. But I expect he will have plans for me.”
“Yes, my lady. Marriage, I expect.”
“That’s right.” Had it been ‘death’ her voice couldn’t have been any bleaker.
“Catherine...” Armand’s voice was faint.
“I’ll leave you, my lady.”
“Yes. Close the door, please.” She crossed the room and sat down on the bed. “Don’t try to talk, Father. Save your strength.”
“Things to say. Important.”
“Please. You’ll tire yourself.”
“Must hear them. No more...time.”
His left hand gripped hers in a surprisingly powerful clasp.
“Speak, then,” she said gently. “I’m listening.”
Chapter Eight
“He has...forfeited his rights,” Armand said, his voice just above a whisper. “If Simon had been... older...”
He shut his eyes and his face contorted. Catherine thought she understood the anguish and regrets that were bringing him such torment.
“But he will be, Father. I’m sure Gilles will not harm him.”
“Not the point. Must tell you... instead.”
“Tell me what?”
“Why ‘the Lord of Radenoc... can never be taken...in his castle’.”
“Oh, that. I remember – a secret handed down in each generation by the baron to his heir. But isn’t it just a story, a
legend?”
“No.”
“In that case it is Gilles who must be told. And we have sent for him – he should be here soon.”
“No! He has forfeited...his rights!”
“Please, Father. Stay calm, I beg you. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“Then listen.”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Go over...there.”
He pointed to one of the two deeply recessed windows. On this warm afternoon the wooden shutters were folded back to let in the cool breeze.
“Take the cushions...off it.”
Catherine did so.
“Now lift the seat.”
Puzzled, she tugged at the solid piece of wood which was recessed into the stone bench.
“It won’t budge,” she panted.
“Pull harder. Or lever it.”
She took her father’s dagger from the coffer near the bed, inserted its point under the seat and pushed the blade in. Then, although worrying that the weapon would break, she pushed down hard on the hilt. Slowly, reluctantly, the slab shifted. Now she could get her fingers underneath it and pull it clear.
“Oh!”
Catherine stepped back with a gasp. There was a large circular hole underneath. Gingerly she stepped close again and dared herself to look down. Her senses reeled. The shaft plunged down hundreds of feet – the bottom, if it had one, was far below, deep in the rock beneath the tower.
“It’s a well. I see.” If the castle was besieged, this impenetrable tower had not only store-rooms for food in its undercroft but its own water supply also.
“No. Not just a well. A way out... or in.”
“What do you mean?” She stole one last look down it then went and sat by the bed.
“There’s a passage. A door leads...into a tunnel. Comes out in the cliff...to the north.”
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