Now, as a healer, she could quite legitimately visit Kerhouazoc or Lanhalles with the support of Father Alain. That her basket contained loaves of bread and hunks of cheese under the pots and flasks, was a well-kept secret. Catherine found pleasure in alleviating even a little of her people’s discomfort. She also enjoyed being busy and having a purpose. Marie complained that she was neglecting Simon; Brigitte said she was ruining her hands -but she ignored both of them. After she had successfully treated a festering dagger wound, one or two of Gilles’s soldiers started to treat her with a grudging respect.
As Guy de Bégard had suggested it would, a year went by with no sign of Gilles’s return. Again most of the Radenoc harvest was transported elsewhere. This time, however, the people were allowed to keep the produce of their own plots. There wasn’t much but probably, with care, it would ensure that most would survive the winter. There were mutterings of discontent but, knowing that the steward had the power to make matters much worse, there was no open rebellion.
The months slipped by. Catherine visited whereever there were reports of sickness, bringing nourishing food and strengthening tonics as well as her medicines. Those in the kitchens assisted her bravely. By rights, judging by what she supposedly consumed, Lady Catherine should have been stout as an ox. In fact as she ate moderately and worked hard, she was slender, even thin – but she was healthy and strong.
It was in April 1151 that word came of Gilles’s immanent return. Thomas de Faou had received a letter instructing him to prepare for the arrival of a number of powerful lords and their retinues. Guy de Bégard was to be one of them.
“You will see to it that the Hall and solar are swept and clean, Lady Catherine, if you please,” said the steward.
“Yes, of course.”
“And you had better abstain from your visits to the sick while Lord Gilles is in residence.”
“Why? What difference can it make to him?”
“Well, naturally you will dress in your best,” he looked pointedly at Catherine’s old stained gown, “and act as his hostess. Also, you might bring infection back to the castle. That would obviously be most unfortunate.”
“I must go to Lanhalles today,” Catherine said firmly, “but I suppose I had better do as you suggest once my brother has arrived. He is not expected before night fall is he?”
“Tomorrow, my lady, according to his letter.”
“And how long does he plan to stay?”
“He did not say.”
“What shall I do, Edain?” Catherine asked the wise woman later, sitting by a peat fire in her hut. “Must I agree to marry de Bégard?”
“I’m glad I ain’t a lady,” Edain said with a rueful laugh. “I can lie with whom I please, an’ marry him or not as I choose. Let’s see your hand.”
Catherine extended her palm and Edain examined it by the firelight.
“There’s passion here,” she said after a moment, “and sorrow...and ‘tis hard to see this young lord accounting for them. No -” She turned Catherine’s hand and peered at it more closely. “-I don’t believe you’re to marry yet awhiles – don’t you let ‘em force you into a promise. The priest, he’s on your side – if you won’t say the words, he can’t say ‘em for you.”
“You’re right, Edain. Now I’d better go.”
As he had predicted, Gilles arrived before noon on the following day. Catherine was amazed at the size of the party which rode in with him – it was like a small army. She had dressed carefully for their arrival. Her gown was dark green and the tunic over it a slightly lighter shade, its sleeves and hem edged with embroidery – Brigitte’s work, not her own. Her veil was held in place by a copper circlet of her mother’s and she hoped that she looked respectable – lady-like but unremarkable. A picture of Odette, dazzling in scarlet, had come into her mind and Catherine had been determined to look very different.
When Guy de Bégard greeted her she was afraid that she had made a mistake. He bowed, took her hand and pressed it passionately to his lips.
“You are lovelier than ever, Lady Catherine,” he exclaimed. “You look like some elfin maiden and already you have woven new enchantment round my heart.”
Catherine’s heart sank. Her hand still tightly gripped in his, he devoured her with his eyes.
“Stand aside, de Bégard!” came a roar. “There’s more than you want to buss Radenoc’s sister!”
To Catherine’s surprise and consternation, she was swept up by a huge bear-like man who kissed her on both cheeks and pinched her bottom before letting her go.
“Why, man, you’ve been keeping her quiet!” the giant roared, thumping Gilles playfully on the back.
“I hadn’t imagined she would be to your taste, Tugon,” said Catherine’s brother. “I thought you liked them buxom.”
“I do! But she’s a toothsome wench all the same.”
Longing to run away and hide, Catherine straightened her veil and attempted to smile.
“You are welcome, my lords. There are sweetmeats in the Hall.”
“Balls to that, wench! Where’s the wine?”
Almost pushing her out of the way, the huge man strode forward, taking the steps up to the Hall two at a time.
“Who’s that?” Catherine asked.
“That’s Tugon Bellec,” Guy said. “He may be a baron these days but he’s yet to learn manners, I fear.”
“And who are they?”
There were several powerful looking, richly dressed men, swarthy and black bearded, who were speaking in a language which was neither Breton nor Norman French.
“I don’t know,” Guy said. “Friends of Gilles, I suppose. You know Léon, de Tourmire and de Rosmadec, I assume?”
“I know the Count, yes – though he looks a lot older now. The other men may have been at my mother’s funeral. I’m not sure, it’s so long ago.”
“Five years, nearly six,” de Bégard agreed, taking her arm and guiding her up the steps. “And I have been waiting all that time, for you. Don’t torture me any longer, Catherine. Say you’ll be mine.”
“Excuse me,” she said, freeing her arm as they reached the door. “I must see what the servants are doing.”
When dinner was served a little later, Catherine was seated beside de Bégard and had to endure his continued attempts to cajole her throughout the meal. She was unsure which was worse, his fulsome flattery or his wandering hands. How she could ever have even considered him as a prospective husband she did not know.
After the meal she slipped away, spending the afternoon and evening with Simon in his nursery. He was keen to go down and see his brother, but Marie and Catherine told him that he must wait until he was sent for. His sister attempted to mollify him by reading him stories of heroic deeds and legends and by promising that Gilles was sure to see him very soon.
When she left the nursery at night-fall she warned Marie to be sure to bar the door. Shouting, laughter and snatches of songs could be heard from the solar and the Hall below. Catherine wanted no-one frightening the child by straying up to his room either accidentally or on purpose. She herself, once she reached her own chamber, barred the door securely. That night she insisted that Brigitte should stay with her. Catherine doubted whether all of Gilles’s companions had a preference for boys, and she didn’t wish her maid to be their victim.
The next morning Gilles commanded her presence in the solar. Her heart sank when she realised that Father Alain and Guy de Bégard were there already.
“The priest is here to witness you plighting your troth,” Gilles said brusquely.
He looked stern, impatient. There was no softness in his dark eyes, no warmth or brotherly concern.
“I...I have not agreed to marry Lord de Bégard,” Catherine faltered.
“Well, get on and do it now.”
“Come, Catherine,” Guy said, “speak now before your priest. Then, in a few weeks, we can be married and you can make your home with me at Le Folgoet.”
“I do not wish to,” Cath
erine whispered.
Gilles ignored her.
“You, priest, tell her what to say.”
“When plighting your troth, Catherine, you speak your full name,” Father Alain explained quietly, “and you state that you promise to give yourself to...whoever it is you are marrying – you speak his full name also. He then says the same to you. Having promised before God, your word is binding.”
“And if I do not choose to make the promise?” Catherine asked, her eyes shifting from du Val to her brother and back again.
“What?” Gilles bellowed.
Catherine swallowed hard.
“If I do not wish to marry him?”
“Then you’ll be bloody well made to! You disobedient and ungrateful little bitch.” Catherine quailed inwardly at the blaze of fury in Gilles’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter whether she agrees or not. I’ll answer for her. I want her disposed of before I sail for Donostia. I haven’t time to listen to objections. Get on with it, Guy, make your promise!”
“I am sorry, my lord,” said Father Alain, “but that is not possible. The lady must give her consent freely.”
“Christ!” Gilles seized Catherine by the shoulders. “Now then, tell him that you agree to marry Guy de Bégard.”
“No,” Catherine said.
“Tell me you’ll marry him!” He shook her viciously.
“No!”
“My lord, please, you’ll hurt her,” the priest protested.
“I’ll kill her! I’ll tear her limb from limb!”
“Please do not, my lord.” It was Guy, this time.
“I have a suggestion, my lord, if you will permit me.”
Catherine had not noticed Thomas de Faou’s presence until now. Gilles released his grip on Catherine, pushing her from him. The steward whispered something in his master’s ear. When he had finished Gilles nodded and gave a curt laugh.
“Very good,” he said. “Take her up to the chapel in the meanwhile and she can pray for her sins to be forgiven. You’ve no objection to that, priest, I suppose?”
Father Alain looked rather anxiously at Catherine.
“No, of course not,” he said dubiously.
“Tell Piriac to keep her company,” Gilles said. “We wouldn’t want her to be lonely.”
“What is happening, my lord?” Guy asked.
“Nothing for you to worry about, my lad. The wench will change her mind soon enough, you’ll see. You’ll be wed before the month is out. Priest, come again tomorrow, if you please, at the same hour.”
“Very well, my lord. God’s blessing upon you, Catherine.”
“Thank you, Father.” She crossed herself. What was Gilles planning?
The little chapel was cold and draughty. She tried to be patient as the hours crept by, but it was very difficult. She knelt at the altar at first, praying for courage and patience. Later she sat huddled on one of the hard wooden seats, uncomfortable and increasingly afraid. Piriac watched her constantly, his attention never faltering for a moment. She tried not to imagine what he was thinking about, not to see the lascivious expression on his face.
Smells of food came up from below when dinner was served at midday. She could hear voices and laughter. Although the very thought of food sickened her, she was thirsty. Politely, pleasantly, she forced herself to ask Piriac if she could have a drink. He laughed and refused, later taking obvious and sadistic delight in consuming a large meal and the jug of ale brought to him by a servant. After he had eaten he belched and lay down on the rush-covered floor, apparently comfortable and at his ease. Catherine forced down her feelings of panic and despair and waited.
Eventually, desperate, she asked to be allowed to visit the privy.
“Have you no sense of decency?” Catherine demanded as he made to go with her. “Leave me for a moment, please!”
“I got my orders, lady. You want to go, you get on with it. Don’t mind me.”
Humiliated and ashamed, feeling the man’s avid eyes on her, she did what she had to and returned to her chapel prison.
Later, it grew dark. Again, from the Hall below, came the sound of voices and laughter, bellowing, raucous. One of the pages, carrying a torch, came up the stairs and into the chapel.
“She’s wanted,” he said excitedly. “You’re to take her down.”
“On your feet, lady,” Piriac said, getting up with a yawn and stretching himself. “You’re in for a treat and no mistake.”
“What do you mean? What’s happening?”
“You’ll see.” He grabbed her arm, roughly, and pushed her ahead of him down towards the Hall.
The scene below was like Catherine imagined Hell. Torches flared smokily in the wall sconces. Near the chapel steps men sprawled out on the benches or lolled across the tables. With them were half-dressed girls and Catherine recognised the most slatternly castle servants and a few women from the village. She tried not to see what they were doing.
Piriac pushed her along until she stood facing the High Table. The noble lords who graced it looked no more sober than their men. Spilt wine, dark like blood, lay in pools on the board. A fair haired boy – not the unhappy one who had been with Gilles before – half lay against his master – like a fawning lap-dog, Catherine thought. The Count was slumped in his seat. Tugon Bellec was bawling for more drink and Guy was laughing uproariously at something one of the others was saying. A girl sat in the lap of one of the foreign lords, and they seemed to be oblivious to the others around them. Catherine shut her eyes and tried to steady herself.
“Ah, my little sister,” Gilles said, the words slurred. He pushed the boy aside and stood up. “Now for some sport.”
“What is your pleasure, sir?” Catherine said, glad to hear that her voice was steady – steady and contemptuous.
“My pleasure! Ha!” Gilles roared with laughter. “No, no, no. Not my pleasure! Guy’s and Tugon’s and yours maybe. Ha! Did you hear that, Thierry, my lad?”
The boy pushed back his long hair, smiled – unpleasantly Catherine thought – and began to crack his finger joints.
“Now then, sister,” Gilles focussed on her with obvious difficulty, “will you plight your troth tomorrow with Guy de Bégard?”
“No, my lord. I will not.”
“De Bégard, do you swear you’ll still want her tomorrow, whatever happens tonight?”
“Of course, my lord. What do you mean?”
“Tugon, how many in your troop?”
“Fifteen...no, sixteen with Le Moigne.”
“Right, then. Take her. Do as you please with her yourself then pass her on to them. Guy can have what’s left tomorrow.”
Bellec gave a growl of satisfaction and struggled to his feet, draining his wine cup.
“My lord, you don’t mean it! What are you doing? Why should you do this?” She must be dreaming, surely. This was some nightmare.
“Guy’ll have you once they’ve done with you. If you don’t marry him you’ll be disgraced, turned out – to bear some nameless bastard, probably. Once they’ve all had you you’ll be glad enough to wed de Bégard.”
“But I...I...”
“Sorry to be stubborn now, are you?”
“Yes! Please, my lord, listen!” Panic swept through her. Bellec was lurching towards the far end of the table, fumbling at the gleaming buckle on his belt. This couldn’t happen, mustn’t happen!
“I’ll make the promise!” she gasped. “I’ll marry Guy! Now! Tomorrow! Whenever you please.”
“Not so stubborn, eh? Give your promise to the priest, tomorrow. But Tugon still gets you tonight.”
“My lord, that’s not fair!”
Guy, less drunk, more agile that Bellec, had vaulted the table to stand at Catherine’s side. He put his hand proprietorially on her shoulder.
“You heard her agree to marry me. I don’t want Bellec’s leavings!”
“And I heard you swear you’d have her tomorrow, whatever happens. We can’t deprive my friend Tugon of his sport, can we? Not now!”
<
br /> “Quite right.” Bellec had reached them and stood, swaying slightly. “The wench is mine. Come along, little pigeon.”
He took hold of the front of her gown, pulling her towards him. His hand, tufted with black hairs, seemed huge. His eyes were pits of fire. An overwhelming stench – wine, sweat and an animal reek from the fur pelt of his jerkin – assailed her nostrils. She felt dizzy, faint.
“Grant me one favour at least,” Guy was saying, plaintively. “Surely you owe me that for all the years I’ve been kept waiting.”
“Favour? What favour? Speak up. But we can’t spoil my friend’s fun.”
“I assume the girl’s untouched,” Guy continued. “Surely, as her future husband, I should be allowed to be the first – whoever else is to have her later. Give me some chance to father my wife’s first-born! You owe me that much at least.”
“What d’you say, Bellec? His request has some justification....” He stumbled over the word. “I think.”
What did it matter? Catherine had almost ceased to care – it was as if they were talking about someone else. Whether he took her first or last, she felt as if she would die if that monster touched her.
“I don’t think much to virgins,” Bellec was saying in answer to Guy. “You loosen her up, de Bégard. The sport’ll be all the better.”
He released his hold on Catherine’s gown and took a few steps down the Hall, grabbing the first girl he came across by her long dark hair and hauling her off a soldier’s knee.
“She’ll keep me warm until you’ve done, won’t you, my pretty?”
“Come along, Catherine.”
Guy had taken her arm and she clutched it for support, her head swimming.
“Where are you going, man? Do it here!”
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