“If I’d thought he would do that I would never have spoken,” Catherine said to Guillaume Rénard. “The other business was bad enough – but this...”
“No-one blames you, my lady. They know you were trying to help.”
“I don’t know what to do! If it wasn’t for Simon I might leave. But where would I go?”
“Be strong, Lady Catherine. They don’t intend you any harm as far as I can see. You’re in no real danger.”
“If I try to intervene in their barbarity I make matters worse,” she continued relentlessly. “I shall have to learn to keep quiet – to see nothing and hear nothing. Perhaps I shall be glad to marry Guy de Bégard after all.”
“Perhaps that’s what they intend, my lady.”
She had an opportunity to assess her feelings for Guy sooner than she had expected. One stormy December afternoon he arrived at the castle and Thomas de Faou, without asking her leave, had him shown straight into the solar. Catherine was working on a tapestry by the light of several wax candles and a number of flambeaux. Brigitte was sorting out her wools and Marie was playing with Simon. They had a good fire, the shutters were closed and they had been quite snug. Shut away from the world outside, Catherine had felt reasonably content. With the arrival of de Bégard, all this changed.
“What a cosy domestic scene!” Guy exclaimed. “Greetings, ladies. I bring you news of your brother, Catherine.”
She put her work aside and looked up.
“Is he well? Planning to visit, perhaps?”
“Yes, he is well though sadly unable to return when he had planned. But still, receiving his message has given me a welcome excuse to visit you myself.”
He moved purposefully across the room towards Catherine.
“Move yourself, wench,” he told Brigitte. “Let me sit by your mistress.”
Brigitte obediently got up, unsure what she should do. Catherine also stood up, preferring to face Guy on her feet; it made her feel less vulnerable. The memory of their last meeting was seared into her brain and even now she could feel her cheeks growing warm. He’d better not touch her.
“Take the stool there, Brigitte,” she said, as calmly as she could, “continue the sorting. There is much to be done if we are to complete this by the spring.”
“Shall I take Simon upstairs, my lady?”
“No, no, Marie. Stay where you are. Lord de Bégard will be glad to meet my brother. Make your bow, Simon.”
“Hello. Do you have a sword? Can I borrow it?” The child beamed up at their visitor.
“I have taken off my sword and left it with my squire. It gets in the way when you are courting ladies, you see.”
“What’s courting?”
“Hush, Simon, come away.”
“You can help me, Lord Simon, wi’ your sharp eyes,” Brigitte said. “Here look at these.”
Liking the bright colours the boy allowed himself to be distracted.
“Lord Gilles told me that you had grown up -” He lowered his voice. “- but he said nothing of your beauty. Come, sit by me, I beg you and let us renew our acquaintance. We were both too young and too foolish when we met before.”
It was an apology of sorts and Catherine felt she ought to accept it. Warily, she sat down by his side.
“I’m afraid I cannot let you stay the night here – with my brother away and my father dead, it would not be proper.”
“My condolences on your loss, Lady Catherine. And I appreciate your scruples – though your cruelty tortures me. I long for the day when I can call you mine.”
Why did he talk like the hero of some romantic ballad? Could he not simply be sincere?
“I have not agreed to marry you, sir.”
“But your brother has given me his word. That is all I need. I know you are a good girl, obedient and in his gift. Most unfortunately our marriage must wait for a little time yet.”
He had not taken in the fact that she had said ‘no’. Was she just a thing? A pawn to be shifted wherever Gilles pleased?
“Why must ‘our marriage’ wait?”
“Gilles has travelled further than he at first intended to – and for rich rewards. He’ll not be back for another year – perhaps longer.”
“And I’m expected just to stay...caged up here until he chooses to come back and set me free? Is that it? It’s intolerable.”
“Catherine, I share your impatience.” He put his hand on her knee. “I am sure he would not object to...a little familiarity.”
Could she bear it? Was marriage preferable to what she suffered now? Perhaps it was. She looked at him, assessing her own reactions. He was handsome enough, she supposed, but his eyes were avid, hot like Piriac’s.
“Remove your hand, sir, if you please. I do not intend to be fondled – by you or anyone else.”
Guy laughed.
“Such modesty becomes you well, my dear. But a little kiss is no harm – is it, ladies?”
Appealed to for their opinion, Marie and Brigitte giggled.
“Why no, sir,” Marie said. “’Tis no harm at all! A pleasure, rather.”
“There now, these young women are better informed than you, Lady Catherine. See now, I’ll just put my arm around your shoulder and once you’ve grown used to that, we’ll go a little further.”
Must she endure this? Could she pretend that he was...Michel’s dear face sprang into her mind to be fiercely banished. She must not think of him. Could she pretend he was Tristan?
“That’s right, my dear, you are easier now. Shall we try a little kiss?”
Why did he have to keep talking? She closed her eyes. Think of Tristan, she told herself, Tristan. To her amazement and horror, the gentle touch of his lips brought back a flood of memory – she could see the lovely young minstrel in her mind and a quiver of response ran through her body. Emboldened by this, Guy’s hand moved to her breast, gently and skilfully caressing as Catherine’s resistance melted. But when her mouth was invaded by his probing tongue she was jolted back to reality. What was she doing?
“Get off me!” she cried, tearing herself free and jumping up.
“Now then, Catherine, we were just getting started. Don’t be silly.”
He seized her again, one of his hands holding hers behind her back while the other travelled over her body, squeezing, caressing.
“Stop it!” she panted desperately. “Brigitte fetch Captain Rénard! Marie, do something.”
“Stay where you are, ladies. I am her approved suitor, here with her brother’s blessing. This is just a little sport! I mean her no harm!”
His mouth found hers again, wet; his tongue huge and probing. It was vile, disgusting, unendurable. Suddenly, a voice, Yon’s, appeared in her head ‘I kneed him in the tender parts’, it was saying. Could she? She forced herself, just for a moment, to relax and Guy appeared to sense his victory. Then, with as much strength as she could muster, she brought her knee violently upwards. She wasn’t even sure exactly what she was aiming for but it seemed to work. Guy let out a strangled cry, released her and doubled over in agony.
At the same moment Simon ran at de Bégard, slapping and thumping him with all his might.
“Don’t you hurt my sister, you nasty man!” Simon shouted. “Don’t you hurt her!”
“It’s all right, Simon love,” Catherine said, almost aghast at the effectiveness of her own action. “I don’t think he’ll give me any more trouble.” She pulled the boy away and lifted him into her arms, hugging him gratefully.
“Now fetch Captain Rénard, Brigitte. Lord de Bégard is leaving.”
“I haven’t finished...with you....lady,” Guy gasped, straightening up with difficulty.
“For the moment I believe you have.”
“You are still promised to me.”
“When my brother comes home, we shall see. I will instruct the guard, in the meanwhile, that you are not welcome here. I am surprised you still want me, after this.”
Guy grinned.
“I don’t mind a
bit of spirit, lady, so, I assure you, I will not change my mind. And when you’re mine, we’ll see how you like a little rough sport.”
Guillaume Rénard appeared in the doorway with two other long-serving Radenoc guards.
“Lord de Bégard is going now, Guillaume,” Catherine said. “Perhaps you will assist him to his horse.”
“With pleasure, my lady.”
Grinning broadly, the captain took Guy’s arm and led him away.
Chapter Nine
Catherine heard nothing more from Guy in the weeks and months which followed. Part of her was glad but another part would have welcomed almost any distraction from the isolation and boredom which she now endured. Thomas de Faou had made it clear that he considered there to be no reason for her visits to Kerhouazoc and Lanhalles and, afraid of consequences which the steward had hinted at, Catherine forced herself to stay away. The only friend whose company he could not deprive her of was the priest and soon he was the only person from outside the castle with whom she had any frequent communication.
Despite his vocation, Father Alain could be an amusing companion and he often entertained Catherine with stories of his travels. He had spent time at the French court and could describe King Louis, pious and ascetic, and his clever and beautiful wife, Eleanor. Catherine, fascinated by his tales and encouraging him to tell more of them, sensed that the young priest admired the Queen far more than he admired her saintly husband.
“I am told by my friend at Tréguier that Louis plans a divorce,” he told Catherine. “His excuse is that his wife behaved improperly in the Holy Land. More probably he blames her for only bearing him daughters and hopes to re-marry and get a son.”
“Poor Eleanor,” Catherine said with a sigh. “It seems so unfair that a great lady like her should be just as powerless as me. She, who brought him vast wealth, can be cast aside at his whim.”
“Eleanor will be all right. The Duchy of Aquitaine reverts to her control if Louis divorces her. And my friend says he has heard that the young Count of Anjou is already showing an interest in her.”
“But if she marries him, she must obey him instead of Louis. Why can’t she just stay as Duchess of Aquitaine, answerable to no-one?”
“Because that is not how things are, Catherine, as you well know.”
“So must I marry Guy de Bégard? Have I no choice?”
“You do not have to marry him, no. You cannot be forced; you must give your consent.”
“And if I will not?”
“Catherine, I do not wish you to marry against your will and will not join with those who might try to make you. But in your position you are bound to marry someone. Surely if you do not like his first choice, your brother will think again.”
“I hope so.”
“We must just pray that his second choice is no worse than his first.”
Catherine shuddered.
“It couldn’t be,” she said.
Father Alain said nothing.
During the winter months great hardship was suffered by the people of Radenoc. Father Alain did what he could but several children died and eventually a deputation from Kerhouazoc came to the castle to beg for food. Yon told Catherine that in September people had managed to hide some food; not everything from the harvest had been taken away. But now those supplies were long gone and many people were starving.
At first the steward refused to listen. After a few weeks, when there had been many deaths, especially amongst the old and the sick, he grudgingly permitted a small quantity of food to be distributed. Once a month the head of each household had to come up to the castle. They had to stand outside the gates, bareheaded and silent, for as long as de Faou pleased. Finally, weakened by cold and hunger, they would be told to kneel and a meagre sack of provisions would be given to each man. If anyone failed to give an appropriate display of gratitude, he would be turned away empty-handed. If a man was sick and his wife came instead, she would get nothing.
On the first occasion, eager to help, Catherine had agreed when the steward had asked her to hand out the supplies. When she saw how little they were getting, how thin they were, how abject they were forced to be, she could hardly bear it. The next time, once she had been assured that the food would still be given to them even if she was not present, she shut herself in the solar and tried not to think about it.
In the spring, forced by Piriac and his whip to agree that they had been lazy and improvident the previous year, the people had to pretend to be grateful when they were granted a pitifully small amount of time to cultivate their own crops. Next winter, they were told, they would get nothing from their Lord. If they worked very hard, both for the castle and on the strips which their Lord had most generously granted them, they would survive. If they slacked and were idle, they would die – it was their own choice.
In May Catherine was delighted to receive a visit from Lord Roland du Plestin. He apologised for having failed to come at the time of her father’s death. He explained that he had been on the Crusade and had only recently returned with King Louis when he had heard the news.
In his company she was able to forget her own situation for a while, even celebrate her birthday in modest style. She was horrified by her uncle’s accounts of the bungling and slaughter which had occurred in the East. Right at the start the French army had been misled and betrayed by the Emperor Manuel of Byzantium, only escaping by luck and a fair wind. Then, when they should have joined forces with the Emir of Damascus, they had first of all laid siege to his city and then been cut down by Nur Ed Din, formerly his enemy, but now his ally and friend.
“Louis regards Raymond of Antioch and the Byzantine Emperor as his main enemies now,” Roland told Catherine.
“It was Count Raymond whom he suspected of...intimacy with the Queen, was it not?” Father Alain asked.
“That’s right. Louis will divorce her, they say.”
“Did you admire her, Uncle? Father Alain says she has great beauty.”
“Undoubtedly. A fine and courageous lady.”
Many pleasant hours passed in discussion of such topics and Catherine’s flagging spirits revived.
Although she asked him, Roland could do nothing to enlighten her about her brother’s present business abroad.
“I believe there’s an alliance between my nephew, a pirate turned baron, your brother and some overseas kingdom: but who it is and what their purpose is I do not know.”
“Sometimes I wish he’d come back – but often I don’t. He wants me to marry Guy de Bégard, you see.”
“But your father refused that match years ago.”
“I know.”
“Lord Armand should have betrothed you to someone else if he wanted to scotch Le Folgoet’s ambitions. What will you do?”
“I don’t know. Can you think of anyone better? Someone that my brother would approve of?”
“To be honest, Catherine, you might do worse. De Bégard is not so bad – he’s young and not unpleasant to look at, and from what I have heard he lacks the vices which many of Gilles’s friends possess.”
“I do not like him and I shall not marry him,” Catherine insisted. “I’m surprised that you should try to persuade me to accept.”
“I’m not. I am only thinking about the alternatives.”
She had, of course, told Lord Roland about the harsh regime which her brother’s steward and his soldiers were enforcing.
“Can you do anything?” Catherine had asked him anxiously.
“I am not your brother’s overlord. My nephew Philippe is. I have no power or influence here so we must be very careful. From what you say, any interference could make matters worse.”
“I have had an idea,” Catherine told him, “but I need your help to get it started. It won’t do much to help but even a little is worthwhile. Father Alain approves. And at least it would be something to do.”
During the winter she had been all too aware of the people’s suffering. They were not only hungry but succumbed to many
illnesses too, some serious and life-threatening, others minor but debilitating. Ladies were allowed to know about herbs, to brew simples and possets, to tend the sick. At Radenoc she had nowhere to grow appropriate plants and knew little about what was involved.
“I want to make a herb garden by the church,” she said. “Will you take me to the Abbey at Pointe St. Mathieu to get everything that I need to get it started?”
“Of course.”
Thomas de Faou was most unhappy about Catherine leaving Radenoc, even for two days. Gilles had expressly forbidden it, it seemed. Lord Roland, with the aid of several gold coins, managed to persuade him to agree but even so, Piriac and another of Gilles’s men had to accompany them to ensure Catherine’s safe return.
In the lonely months which followed, those two days shone brightly in her memory. The weather had been perfect – calm, sunny and mild. She had enjoying seeing Brother Jean again and was amazed at the grandeur and beauty of the Abbey. The herb garden there was huge and the monk had given her boxes of cuttings, packets of seeds, tools, advice: all that was required. He had also given her a much thumbed volume containing instructions for the cultivation and use of hundreds of plants.
Lord Roland had taken his leave almost as soon as they had arrived back at Radenoc. Catherine, aided by two men from Kerhouazoc, had then set to work. She had worried that de Faou would insist on one of Gilles’s men supervising her garden, but he did not. This meant that, having deliberately chosen men with large families, she could provide them with plenty of food when they worked for her. And, of course, she would still permit them the few days allowed by the steward to work on their own plots.
Once there was sufficient growing in the garden for her to begin to harvest the plants, Catherine spent much of her time in the castle’s still room. Dressed in her oldest clothes, she spent hours poring over the book which the monk had given her, chopping and steeping plants and stirring bubbling pots. She brewed remedies for fevers, for sore throats, stomach disorders, skin complaints and headaches. She also brewed potions to deter moths and fleas, made perfumes and tisanes, labelling everything carefully in her uneven, awkward hand-writing. She may have learned to read fluently but writing was quite another matter. As she worked, she thought of Ahmed’s immense knowledge of medicine and envied it, though not for a second did she wish for him still to be alive and at Radenoc.
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