At Valsemé, only two weeks ago, Eleanor de Metz, his grandmother, had finally convinced him that her son Robert, Raoul’s own father, had been Baron Henri of Radenoc’s legitimate heir. That was why Armand, Raoul’s great uncle, had had Robert killed. If he himself had not managed to escape from the castle that night, he would have met the same fate. As the son of a bastard, Raoul would have been no threat – Bertrand had persuaded him to see the logic of that. Men from Radenoc had even visited Lady Eleanor in search of him before he had gone on the Crusade. Luckily for him he had been safely ensconced at Montglane with Félice.
Now, riding on Hercules, his magnificent destrier, Raoul was leading a richly dressed, well-armed troop – almost an army – towards a place he had first seen as a confused and unhappy boy of seventeen. The band of mummers had taken weeks to cover the ground which they had travelled through in a few days. Memories crowded in and Raoul wondered whether Etienne, Félice’s son (and almost certainly his own) might be disappointed in his new master.
He didn’t give that impression. The boy cheerfully insisted that, as Raoul’s squire, he must be allowed to ride to one side and only slightly behind his master. Although really too young for such responsibilities, he was always ready to tend Hercules, lavishing as much attention on him as he did on his own beloved Saracen. He cleaned Raoul’s boots and armour daily and served him cheerfully at table, showing no sign of missing either his mother or the household in which she had previously placed him as a page. He was a well-grown lad, strong and unflagging, showing no signs of weariness. He went to bed reluctantly when Raoul dismissed him, but he was always awake and ready to wait on him again first thing in the morning.
Raoul was glad that he had made the decision to foster him. He wondered whether the boy’s appearance had been noted by others – the resemblance between them was certainly marked. Etienne de Montglane himself seemed blithely unaware of any speculation about who might have fathered him and Raoul had no intention of inflicting on him the sort of agonising doubts that he himself had suffered.
Once Bertrand de Courcy had left, returning directly to Morbihan from Valsemé, Raoul had been glad of Etienne’s company. Escorted by the troop from Beauchamp, they had ridden from his grandmother’s castle to Caen. Raoul was keen to thank the Duchess for all she had given him. She had greeted him joyfully and for the first time in his life Raoul had found himself on equal terms with those whom he had previously been forced to regard as his superiors. It made a pleasant change.
He had been surprised at Henri Plantagenet. Eleanor’s young husband was barely twenty years old and not at all handsome – he was very, very different to Raymond of Antioch, the former Queen’s lover in Palestine. Despite his youth, a power, a shrewdness emanated from Henri. Within a very few years he had become Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy. It was strongly rumoured that he would be the one choice of King for England who might satisfy the needs of both King Stephen and the Empress Matilda.
Even had he wished to make a long stay at the ducal court, Eleanor herself would not have permitted it.
“I always knew that you were more than a soldier of fortune,” she told Raoul. “I have given instructions to the Baron de L’Orne, to Brulon, de Suzé...” She named several others, all rich and powerful. “They will gather their men and ride with you. It will be August in two days. I want you to be Lord of Radenoc before a month has passed.”
“It may take a little longer than that, my lady,” he had said with a laugh.
“Don’t be foolish. Why should it?”
“I must go first to Morbihan, my lady. Lord Bertrand has also promised me his support.”
“Well, do not dally there for too long, my dear. And I expect you to keep me informed of your progress.”
“I shall be pleased to do so. I owe you so much.”
“I haven’t forgotten what you risked for us, Raoul, in the Holy Land. And had you managed to see the Emir earlier, the outcome of the whole Crusade might have been different.”
“Yes indeed, my lady.” He grinned provocatively. “You might still be married to Louis.”
“We must be thankful I am not. I have great hopes of my little Henri.”
A mere three days later, Raoul had kissed Eleanor’s hand, made his bow to the Duke of Normandy, and the walls and towers of Caen were left behind.
They took the direct route to the castle, avoiding Sarzeau. Raoul intended to go to the village, of course, but he had not forgotten the fear that hundreds of horsemen would provoke in such a community. The castle was a fine sight, shimmering in a haze of summer sunshine, its bulk made almost ethereal by the misty golden light. It had been dawn when he had seen it first, he thought. He and Connell and Damona had brought the injured merlin, Gwen, down to the marsh to see if she could fly. Then Bertrand de Courcy and his friends had arrived and he had fought him because of Damona. How strange that such an inauspicious meeting should end in a friendship like theirs.
“Will we stay long in Morbihan, my lord?” Etienne asked.
“It depends on Lord Bertrand,” Raoul replied, shaking himself out of his recollections. “His father died while we were in Palestine – he may have affairs to settle which will take some time.”
“Surely the Beauchamp men and the Duchess’s are sufficient to re-take Radenoc,” the boy said, glancing at the strong force of men riding behind him.
“I do not know. Since Bertrand came home he may have been able to glean information about Radenoc’s strength, and its allies. It will not do to be hasty.”
“But, my lord...”
“I know, Etienne, you long to ride out and cut them down single-handed but it won’t do. We must use tactics and strategy. Believe me, there is no virtue in needless bloodshed and no valour in running unnecessary risks. Now sound your bugle. We are within earshot of the gates. Give it a good loud blast.”
In answer to Etienne’s enthusiastic summons, the drawbridge was lowered and Raoul rode through into Morbihan’s courtyard. A ridiculous vision of a former self flashed into his mind: he had disguised himself as a girl to escape recognition by Bertrand – and had almost been seduced by him instead. He was still grinning about it as he dismounted and gripped his friend’s hand.
“I don’t need to ask how things are with you, Raoul,” Bertrand said. “You are in good spirits, I can see.”
“I was remembering Eileen, our mutual acquaintance!”
Bertrand laughed.
“I’d almost forgotten.”
“Not you!”
“You seem to be well attended, Raoul.”
“I am – can you find billets for them all?”
“Oh yes, somewhere. I assume by the badges that the Duchess was in favour of our plan?”
“Enthusiastic, I would say. So is Etienne. He can hardly wait for us to set out.”
“It shouldn’t be long. But come inside, you must meet my mother – properly this time – and speak to Tréguier and my children. Etienne will see to Hercules. The stables are over there, lad. Join us in the Great Hall when the horses are taken care of.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The boy gave his best bow and led the two stallions away.
“Has he behaved himself?” Bertrand asked as they went up the steps to the first floor entrance to the main keep.
“Oh yes. He’s been exemplary. I can’t help but feel that sooner or later he’s bound to get into some scrape – this is too good to last.”
“Perhaps. But he’s not bored now. That was the trouble before, I swear it. Don’t you remember the pranks you played at his age?”
“I didn’t have his opportunities. My grandmother had me practically tied to her bed-posts.”
“Of course. Lord, the things I did up at Tréguier. It’s a wonder he wanted me as his son-in-law.”
Raoul had not forgotten how much the Count admired Bertrand and it was pleasant to renew his acquaintance now with his former commander.
“It’s good to see you again, my lad,” the
Count said, seizing Raoul’s hand in a hearty grip. “And you’re prospering, I hear. I’d come on this little foray with you but someone has to bring up the rear guard. Bertrand wants me at Tréguier in case you need reinforcements.”
“A wise plan, my lord,” Raoul agreed.
The Count had aged considerably since he had seen him last in the Holy Land. Bertrand had obviously used considerable tact not to offend him.
“Bertrand has spoken much of you,” a woman said, coming forward to make her curtsy. “I do not know that I appreciate my son departing again so soon after he has come home, but he says it’s a matter of honour – and with that, I suppose, I must be content.”
Raoul doubted whether this woman would ever be content with anything that conflicted with her own will – he remembered her well: hawk nose, fierce blue eyes and rigid dignity. The years hadn’t changed the Countess of Morbihan.
“Make your bows, boys.” A gentle voice urged the two children forward.
One, the older, was wearing the livery of a Tréguier page. The younger looked as if it wouldn’t be long before long he joined him.
“Luc and Francois, my sons,” Bertrand said proudly. “This is Lord Raoul, Baron de Beauchamp, who is my very good friend.”
“And this is Minette. Make your curtsy, child.”
The gentle voice belonged to a young woman. A little girl was holding firmly onto her hand and looking up at Raoul wide-eyed. She showed no signs of curtsying.
Raoul crouched in front of her.
“Hello, Minette. I know nothing about you!”
“She’s our little miracle,” the woman said. Her smile was as sweet as her voice – not a nurse-maid, Raoul decided.
“When Louise died they all thought that Minette would die too,” Bertrand explained. “But she did not, as you can see. She will be five years old in October and until two weeks ago she had never seen her father.”
“And if this foolish venture comes to grief she never will again,” Bertrand’s mother said acidly.
“I shall be back in Morbihan by then, Minette, I promise you.” He lifted the little girl into his arms and Raoul stood up.
“It would be lovely if you were,” the young woman said.
How strange, Raoul observed. When her face was in repose she looked quite plain – her face was rather round, her features unremarkable and her hair, judging by the tips of her long braids, was an indeterminate light brown. But when she smiled, it was if someone had lit a candle behind her eyes – she was completely transformed.
“My friend is extremely rude, my lady,” Raoul said. “He has not thought to introduce us.”
“I do apologise. Raoul, this is Anne de Bourbriac, my late wife’s cousin. She has been kindly taking care of my children since Louise’s death.”
“She had nothing else to do with herself,” said the Countess.
Raoul sensed rather than saw Anne wince.
“Mother, please,” Bertrand said sharply.
“Well it’s true. A barren woman is no use to anyone.”
Anne had taken Minette from Bertrand and had moved away, whispering something to Francois. It was as if she was trying to separate herself from what was being said. At a signal from the older lady, she and the children went through a curtained arch-way at the far end of the hall.
“We will leave you to disarm and to discuss your little war,” said Lady de Courcy with a cold smile. “Come, Count, I believe we are superfluous.”
Tréguier, after a moment’s hesitation, offered his arm to the Countess and they too headed for the door-way with Luc, Bertrand’s older son following them.
“Anne will be pleased to return to Tréguier if Mother carries on like that,” Bertrand observed in exasperation when they had gone. “I’d hoped that she’d stay here, at least for a while. Luc will go with my father-in-law, of course. But I don’t want the little ones – especially Minette – thinking that their home is up there rather than here in Morbihan.”
“What’s Anne’s story?”
“She was married for about four years, I think, to Pierre de la Chéze. He divorced her because she’d failed to conceive; he refused to return her dowry and just threw her out. She ended up at Tréguier and she’s been there ever since.”
“And was he luckier with his next wife?”
“Not at all,” Bertrand said with a laugh. “They say she ran off with a tinker after only a month or two and she hasn’t been seen since.”
“Didn’t he want Anne back?”
“Of course not. He had her dowry – she had no other value to him.”
Raoul looked sharply at his friend. Did he approve?
As Raoul had hoped, Bertrand now had a greater understanding of the alliances and disputes affecting Lower Brittany. But the first news he was given was very unwelcome. Armand de Metz, the principal object of Raoul’s anger and hatred, was dead. Raoul felt frustration and fury at the knowledge that he would never be able, now, to make him eat his cruel taunting words; would never make him pay for the years of torment and anguish which he had been made to suffer.
Armand had died three years ago; his son Gilles was now Lord of Radenoc and, until recently, he had had powerful allies. Philippe du Plestin as Count of Léon had always been very much the patron and friend of Gilles de Metz. According to the Count of Tréguier, Gilles had been squire to the older man – and consequently had been strongly influenced by him at an early age. Léon had been a nuisance to Tréguier for years, harrying his borders, raiding, pillaging. It had been thanks to the vigilance of his own trusty barons that the Count’s territory had not been sequestered or totally despoiled during his absence abroad in the Crusade. Recently, however, Philippe had died. Roland, his successor, was very different. He seemed to want an end to their dispute and while the precise delineation of their borders would need careful negotiation, Tréguier was cautiously optimistic. He had arranged to meet him at the Abbey of St. Nicholas in five days’ time.
“I shall mention Radenoc to him. If he were in favour of your claim, Raoul, it would do much to strengthen our new bonds with Léon – Radenoc’s his most powerful barony, you know.”
“His support seems almost vital,” Raoul said. “I would need a sizeable army to defeat Count Roland as well as Gilles.”
“But surely, my lord, with the Duchess’s troops it would be easy enough.” It was Etienne, irrepressible, speaking from behind Raoul’s chair.
“You shouldn’t interrupt, boy,” Tréguier growled. “I’d have him flogged, Raoul.”
“I remember too well what it was like to have to observe and say nothing,” Raoul said. He had been Tréguier’s squire for a while. “But the Count is right, Etienne, you should not speak if your opinion is not sought. You are lucky: you are Baron de Montglane so when you are older, it will be. You must learn patience.”
“Sorry, my lord.”
“The problem is that it looks like an invasion,” said Bertrand after a moment. “Eleanor’s barons, your own men from Beauchamp are all Normans: all of Brittany would rise in arms against such a threat. My Vannetais will help. With Léon’s backing it would be so much easier.”
“I don’t want more slaughter than we can help. I have seen too many wasted lives.”
“Amen,” said Anne in a whisper.
Bertrand looked across at her and smiled.
By the time a week had passed, Raoul had a far greater understanding of Bertrand’s attitude towards Anne. It wasn’t only to see his children that the Count of Morbihan spent so much of his time in her company. There was a softening of Bertrand’s expression when his eyes rested on her – and frequently they did. He insisted that she should not be relegated to the nurseries but should eat and sit with the family. He defended her curtly against his mother’s jibes and when the Count of Tréguier rode north, Bertrand insisted that she and the younger children must stay behind. The meeting with Léon was potentially dangerous but more importantly, as a dependent, Anne had no power to refuse.
H
owever much she was taunted or praised, the woman herself said nothing. As time went by she seemed to be shrinking deeper into a protective shell of modesty and silence. She played and talked less freely with the children. She smiled rarely. Her colour rose hotly when Bertrand sat near her. To Raoul it was obvious that she was bitterly unhappy and the more Bertrand noticed her, the more distraught she became. Raoul considered saying something to him but hesitated. He did not want to interfere.
A few days after Tréguier had left, a messenger rode in. The new Count of Léon was more than happy to give Raoul not only encouragement but men to support his dispute with Gilles de Metz. The present baron of Radenoc had made many enemies and there were others beside Roland du Plestin who would offer their swords in an attempt to unseat him. A rendezvous was suggested for the last day of August. Elated, Raoul agreed, sending his own messenger post-haste with his reply.
With his own departure now imminent, Raoul could not delay his visit to Sarzeau much longer. Early one morning he excused himself to Bertrand and set out on foot. A light rain was blowing in from the sea and, as he walked through the marshes, he felt almost as if he had been transported back in time. Inside he felt the same – no older, no different to what he had felt years ago. Would anyone be there who remembered him? He tried to recall the names and faces of the villagers.
As he reached the first houses his heart gave a lurch. There was the miller’s cottage with the snug barn where he had slept. There was the other one, frequently tumble-down but now in good repair – it had been Daniel Guennec and Maeve’s winter home. There was smoke coming out of the roof-hole. Although it was still only August, someone was there. What if it was a stranger?
Raoul forced himself not to hesitate but to march boldly forwards and knock on the door.
The woman who opened it was no stranger – even if she was smaller and rounder than he remembered. Her wild red hair was covered with a respectable kerchief and she wore a large apron – but it was Maeve, unmistakably. For a moment she looked at him blankly then she gave a shriek and threw her arms round him.
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