“Thanks, Bellec, but I prefer my sport to be private. I’ll not advise you on your pleasures – don’t interfere with mine!”
As they walked the length of the Hall, jeers, catcalls and shouted instructions echoed in their ears. Outside it was dark, quiet, raining. Catherine’s knees buckled and Guy carried her down the steps.
“Please, let me go,” she whispered.
“It’s all right,” he said, setting her on her feet and turning away. “I don’t want to hurt you. I couldn’t think of any other way of getting you out of there.”
“Thank you. I...I’m grateful. But...but perhaps it will be all right – they’ll get too drunk – they’ll fall asleep, forget.”
“Not tonight they won’t, not Bellec’s men. And he forgets nothing.
“Then give me your dagger.”
“Why?”
“I can’t face this. I’d sooner cut my throat now and have it done with.”
“Catherine, I don’t want them to do this to you. But I’m only one man against...nearly twenty. I can’t prevent it. It’s three weeks until Bellec’s ship returns. Even if you could find somewhere to hide, you couldn’t hide for that long.”
“I can – please! I know where I can go!”
“I might be able to talk your brother round but...”
“Please, do that, will you?” she said excitedly. “If you can speak to Gilles, privately – promise anything you like on my behalf – but I’ll not come back until that...that man is gone. Tell my brother that.”
“Catherine, it’s too dangerous. You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“I do know. Thank you. Go now, please.” She pressed his hand. “Go up to your chamber then you won’t have seen me leaving.”
“But where will you go?”
“It’s better that you do not know.”
Reluctantly, Guy moved away.
Guillaume Rénard was in the guard room above the gatehouse. Luckily, those with him, as Catherine had hoped, were all older men, her father’s – she could trust them to keep quiet. Gilles’s men were all in the hall, she had seen them – drunk and debauched. They, like de Bégard, would know nothing. Quickly she explained what she wanted. Moments later she was outside the gates, running, desperately running through the driving rain, towards Lanhalles.
Chapter Ten
As Catherine had hoped, Tanguy took her to Ile Yoc’h. She doubted if Gilles had ever heard the stories of his aunt’s flight from Radenoc. He would have no reason to link Catherine with Lanhalles and no cause to question the fisher folk about her disappearance.
Simon was her only worry in the strange month which followed. But Marie was with him and Gilles had shown no sign of enmity towards the boy – indeed he seemed to have forgotten his existence – so Catherine tried to banish him from her thoughts. She wore the simple, comfortable clothes of the islanders. She gutted fish, helped to stoke the fire in the smoke-house, listened to stories, laughed, and danced. When, at last, a message came from Father Alain via Edain that the baron and his friends were gone, Catherine felt almost sorry.
“What story has been told about me?” Catherine asked Edain once she had come ashore. “Where do they think I have been?”
“With the Holy Sisters,” Edain grinned. “The priest had you magically transported to Locronan in the dead of night, apparently. And he threatened Bellec and them with the fires of Hell if they should try to find you.”
“They didn’t hurt him, did they?”
“No. The young Lord, de Bégard, he set his lot to protect him. Quarrelled with your brother too, I’m told. Swore vengeance.”
“I’m starting to think that I misjudged Guy de Bégard,” Catherine said thoughtfully.
“Wish you’d had him now, do you?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that.”
Edain laughed.
“Too late, my dear. ‘Tis much too late.”
To lend credence to the story, Father Alain escorted Catherine back to the castle himself. She felt dreadfully nervous. Thomas de Faou and Piriac would still be there and they had been prime movers in what had been planned. Would she be allowed to resume her privileged if powerless position?
The narrow footbridge was let down at Father Alain’s command and he guided her gently across it. The castle’s officials had gathered to witness her return – both those from Lord Armand’s day and Gilles’s men.
“Do you feel that your retreat from this wicked world has cleansed your spirit, child?” the priest asked her audibly once they reached the courtyard.
“Yes, Father, I do.” Catherine could agree quite truthfully – she did feel refreshed and cleansed.
“I trust you will find yourself more able to undertake your duties obediently as a consequence.”
“I shall try to, Father,” Catherine said humbly. How she wished she could have stayed away.
“She should learn to do as the baron bids and not cross his will,” the steward commented grimly. “She brought the trouble on herself.”
“Guillaume Rénard.” He called the older man forward. “As her father’s captain, I leave her in your care. You know what Lord Armand would have wished. Should she need further guidance, send for me at once, I beg you.”
“Straight away, Father, straight away.”
“Good. Now I shall take my leave of you. You must come daily and tend your garden, Catherine.”
“I shall see that she does,” Renard said firmly.
“There’s reports of sickness in the village,” said de Faou. “You’ve been neglecting all that.”
“The people of Radenoc are always in my heart. But I shall do what I can, steward,” Catherine said.
“God’s blessings, child.”
The priest made the sign of the cross, smiled reassuringly, and moved towards the gate-house. Catherine stood still, hesitating, unsure what to do or say now. Should she give some sort of explanation or account of herself?
“Catherine! Catherine, you’re back!” Suddenly there was Simon, leaping wildly down the steps from the Hall, demanding all her attention. “They said you’d gone away an’ I’d never see you anymore!”
She swung the little boy up into her arms and hugged him tightly.
“I wouldn’t leave you. You should know that.”
“They said you’d wear hairy clothes an’ pray all the time! Is that what you did?”
Catherine thought of the short woollen kirtles, the songs and laughter, the freedom of Ile Yoc’h.
“Something like that, love, I suppose. What have you been up to?”
“Gilles gave me a helmet – a proper one! It was that funny boy’s. An’ he let me ride on his horse. An’ he’ll come back soon, he says. He’s not going for ages an’ ages this time. He promised.”
“Then that will give us something to look forward to,” she said, her heart sinking.
Simon was getting heavy so she set him down again, took his hand and turned towards the steps. He was still chattering excitedly about what they had done, what Gilles had said, how the funny boy (Thierry?) had been cross. Catherine sighed. When Gilles returned she would marry Guy de Bégard. She would have to.
In less than four months, Gilles returned. Catherine watched the party of horsemen approaching the gate-house and prayed, desperately, for God to protect her. This time, however, apart from his own men-at-arms, the Lord of Radenoc came alone. There was no sign either of Guy or Bellec. Catherine suspected that they might be joining him later but Gilles gave no orders for rooms to be prepared and did not mention them. Consequently neither did Catherine.
If she had hoped to become more closely acquainted with her brother, she would have been disappointed. Gilles seemed barely aware of her. He spent much of his time out on horseback, hunting. Shortly after his return he acquired a small stout pony for Simon and the boy happily rode with him. He never suggested that Catherine should go too. Once when she plucked up courage and asked if she could, he simply frowned.
“You’re
a woman,” he said.
And that was the end of it.
Although he dined in the Hall with the rest of the household, any other hours in the castle were spent up in the high chamber in the Western Tower. Thierry, Simon’s ‘funny boy’ spent most of his time there too. When Gilles was hunting, he would sit in the solar, scowling out of the window, making scathing remarks about the castle, the weather, the food or the servants.
Once or twice Catherine tried to speak to him. She asked whether he played chess. He looked outraged. She asked whether he would like to borrow some of the books she had – the lad was obviously bored – he looked disgusted and muttered something about ‘womanly pursuits’. Catherine gave up.
Gilles was moody too, brooding angrily over something, Catherine suspected. The only person who seemed able to cheer him and distract him was Simon. Catherine had worried at first that he might corrupt the child, but, watching them together, she decided that there was nothing to fear. If Gilles had had a son, he would have treated him as he did Simon. On the boy’s sixth birthday he gave him a sword, a perfect scaled down copy of his own. He also set Albert, one of his best men, to teach him how to use it.
“He can go to Penmarch to be fostered,” he remarked one day as he and Catherine watched them practising. They were sitting in the sun on the steps below the Hall. “Lucien will treat him well.”
At the age of eight Gilles himself had gone to Léon.
“If...if he went to Le Folgoet I could keep an eye on him myself,” Catherine suggested hesitantly.
Gilles swung round to face her, his expression bitter.
“You won’t be going there.”
“Why? Does Guy...do you not intend – ?”
“Intentions have nothing to do with it,” he said. “God knows what I should do with you. Send you back to the Sisters, perhaps. Guy de Bégard, who is Baron Le Folgoet now his father’s dead, is paying court to the daughter of the soon-to-be Count of Léon – Roland du Plestin, in other words.”
“My...my uncle will be Count?”
“Aye. As soon as Philippe’s dead – and that won’t be long. But I’d forgotten he was your uncle.” A calculating expression had replaced the former bitter one. “You might be some use to me after all.”
“Did you see, Gilles? I got past Albert’s guard!” Simon rushed over, panting, flushed with triumph.
“Aye, well done, little ‘un.”
“He says he’s got to stop now so will you fight with me instead, Catherine?”
“Women don’t fight with swords, Simon. You should know that – they fight with their tongues and their ugly bodies instead.”
“I don’t understand!”
“You will when you’re older, never fear. Thierry, take this and give the child a bout.” He flung Simon’s painted wooden sword to the sullen faced boy who lounged at his feet.
“But it’s not...!”
“Do as you’re told, you idle lout.” He struck Thierry a stinging blow on the side of the head with his outstretched palm. “Christ, I’m bored.”
“Does your business not prosper, my lord?”
“Prosper? No, it does not. When Tugon and Salvatore return, we shall see...Aye, then we shall see, by God. In the meanwhile you may send a letter to your uncle expressing affection and sweet loving sentiments – you know the sort of thing – and let me hear no objections.”
“I shall be glad to.”
Whatever plan Gilles had, nothing seemed to come of Catherine’s letter. The days of summer passed. This year the harvest was a poor one – strong winds and torrential rain ruined much of the crop. Radenoc’s affairs were left in de Faou’s control and there was hardship and sickness everywhere.
Increasingly, Gilles seemed to find it difficult to keep a check on his temper. A man in Kerhouazoc was flogged to death for nothing – something about him had simply caught the baron’s eye. Piriac, licensed by his master, was terrorising the women of the district and the Hall each night was a scene of debauchery and unbridled lust, according to servants’ gossip. Catherine and Simon kept well out of the way, retreating upstairs before darkness fell. In the mornings Catherine would notice broken benches and tables in the Hall, spilt pools of wine, vomit – and sometimes blood. Thierry’s face would have a new assortment of bruises and his moroseness and moodiness grew more and more marked. Often these days other boys – scullions or pages – would be hauled off to the tower for the baron’s pleasure. Catherine warned Yon to stay away – to go to Ile Yoc’h if his father would let him. So far he had escaped Gilles’s attention.
Just before Christmas, Gilles told Catherine that he was going to Penmarch. Remembering the kind if somewhat smothering attentions she had received from the ladies Margot and Hélène years before, Catherine asked whether she could go too. Her request was impatiently refused. She must stay at Radenoc with Simon. The following year, in all probability, the boy himself would be gone. Gilles would settle that with Lucien Kerboul when he saw him, he said. After that the cloister would be Catherine’s destination – if he could find a House to take her without an exorbitant fee.
Not long after Gilles had departed, taking all of his own men apart from his steward and the unfortunate Thierry, there were several days of gale-force winds and mountainous seas. Marie, Brigitte, Catherine and Simon, huddled over the fire in the solar while the shutters rattled and draughts whistled through the cracks. At first Thierry stayed away, shutting himself up in the tower, Catherine assumed. Gradually, though, he began to linger after meals. He would perch on the window seat, cracking his finger joints and listening to their gossip and chat. Occasionally he seemed about to join in with a song or a game but at the last moment he would recollect himself and pull back, slouching away shortly afterwards as if ashamed. Once she persuaded him to sit beside her and hold the wool she was winding. For a moment, warmed by the fire, he had forgotten himself and smiled. After that, every now and again, Catherine would catch him watching her. She felt sorry for him, wondering where Gilles had found him and who his family were.
The baron was absent for three weeks. When he returned he seemed more jovial, pleasanter tempered. Whatever dispute there had been him and Thierry was forgotten and the boy was again encouraged to lounge devotedly at his master’s side. Still, once or twice, Catherine felt his blue eyes resting on her. More disturbing was the impression she had that Gilles had some new scheme in hand and that somewhere she, Catherine, was part of it. He too watched her and, remembering Bellec, she shivered.
In the early spring Catherine could once more spend part of each day in the garden beside the church. The shelves in the still room groaned under the weight of jars, bottles and retorts – she had enough medicines to treat half of Brittany without preparing any more. But it was growing the plants that she loved as it allowed her to escape from the castle.
In the drier months the watering took a long time. Her helpers from Kerhouazoc would have done it for her but the physical labour of winding the bucket up from the well by the priest’s house, though hard, was not unpleasant. She would rather Braz and Le Dantec watered their own cabbages; she could manage the herbs.
“You’re getting as brown as a gipsy, Catherine,” Father Alain observed. “You should wear a veil to shade your face.”
“Why? There’s no noble Lord coming to court me, Father. I’m too old to find a husband now.”
“Nonsense. What are you? Twenty? That’s no age.”
“I had my chance and I turned it down – not that I regret it. When I’m sent off to a convent, the quality of my complexion won’t matter.”
“Whatever plans Lord Gilles has for you, they may need to be deferred. I have heard some news – disturbing news. I need to go and tell him.”
“What do you mean?”
Catherine had put down her buckets and now sat on the stone parapet of the well, mopping her face with a large kerchief.
“A Norman baron, with the encouragement of the Duchess and the Count of Morbihan, seems to be ma
king some claim to Radenoc. He’s gathering a force together further south, somewhere near Vannes, I believe. When he has an army, he’ll be marching this way.”
“How do you know?”
“I had a letter from Tréguier. Bertrand de Courcy, the Count of Tréguier’s son-in-law, is his chief supporter. This fellow has no birth and was only ennobled by Eleanor after the Crusade.”
“That sounds terrible! You must warn Lord Gilles straight away.”
“I know. Perhaps you will walk back with me.”
“Of course.”
Gilles barely listened to Father Alain’s news, dismissing it as an idle rumour.
“You priests have too little to do,” he said. “You’re forever scribbling away – wasting good manpower spreading gossip round the countryside. Your business is saving souls, Father, not conjuring threats where none exist.”
Three days later Catherine was in the Hall when another messenger arrived. “I bring news, my lord, from the south.”
Catherine glanced at her brother.
“Well?”
“Raoul, Lord of Beauchamp has demanded that you relinquish Radenoc to him at once. He has assembled a large army and, unless you agree to his terms, he says he will destroy you.”
“Ridiculous!” Gilles roared, snatching the sealed parchment from the kneeling man’s hand.
He unfolded it and as he read, his expression altered.
“The bastard! The bastard!” he cried, crumpling the letter in his fist. “I should have killed him myself!”
“Is it the Norman?” Catherine asked.
“Aye. It’s a cursed invasion! Piriac! Ride to Trégastel. Tell Bellec I’ll need all the men he can spare. You, Claude, Anton – to Penmarch. Lucien has a strong force there.”
“I thought it was just an idle rumour, my lord.” Catherine couldn’t resist the temptation to taunt him. “Why such haste?”
For a second she thought that he would hit her. She shrank back as he turned on her furiously.
“Stupid, useless bitch! Because of you I’ve lost Le Folgoet’s allegiance – it would have made a difference.”
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