Dragging his mind from the past to the present, Raoul looked round him. People had been here, recently, and they had left in a hurry – someone must have warned them. There were wine cups on the floor, and flagons had been cast carelessly aside, letting their contents spill onto the rushes; there was a strong smell of drink, and the stench of smoke was too powerful to have been caused by one flambeau alone. Another, animal smell lingered nauseatingly in Raoul’s nostrils. Near the High Table something white lay on the floor: Raoul’s heart gave a jolt of fear.
“My lord? Have we come too late?”
Guillaume Rénard and several of the others had now entered the Hall behind him.
“I fear so.” Raoul handed him the torch. “Send men to search this place, will you? See if anyone is left.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Raoul forced himself to go forward. The object was a nightshirt, a boy’s, much too small to belong to Etienne. He drew a shaky breath of relief.
“My God!”
He turned abruptly at Rénard’s cry. To one side, in deep shadow, a body lay. Raoul crossed to the older man’s side.
“Was this your squire, my lord?”
The boy was on his back, pale, still, his eyes shut. The gaping wound in his throat and the dark stain around him told their grim story. Apart from his under-shirt, the boy was naked.
For a second, Raoul’s senses reeled. Pain, fury and horror threatened to engulf him as he sank to his knees beside Félice’s son, his own son, however unacknowledged. An agonised cry broke from him as he gathered the cold lifeless form into his arms. Around him the world seemed to dim.
“The chapel,” Raoul said hoarsely at last. “There’s a chapel, isn’t there?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Rénard softly. “Follow me.”
The captain held the torch aloft, lighting Raoul’s way as he carried the boy’s slight body up the narrow steps to the chapel where he laid him carefully on the altar. Raoul then unfastened his own cloak and placed it tenderly over him, leaving the white face uncovered as if he were asleep and this was his bed rather than his bier.
“Light the candles, if you please.” Raoul’s voice was still gruff, thickened with grief.
Rénard held the torch to each of the two thick wax candles whose wrought metal stands flanked the altar until their flames sprang up, straight and true.
“You could not have saved him, my lord,” Rénard said softly. “Once the boy was captured, he was lost.”
“Perhaps. But I am at fault, nevertheless.”
He turned abruptly away and went rapidly down the stairs to the Hall below, Rénard hurrying after him.
“I want you and fifty others to come with me. Leave the rest under the command of one of your comrades to hold Radenoc until we return.”
“What do you intend, my lord?”
“Someone is going to pay for this outrage.” His anger had suddenly rekindled into one white-hot flame. “And soon!”
“Quickly! quickly! Get off the road!”
This was the sound Catherine had been dreading: the unmistakable thunder of horses’ hooves coming towards them.
“Oh, my lady, what will they do?” Brigitte’s round face was white and her eyes were full of fear.
“They’re murderers and savages!” another wailed. “They’ll rape us first and kill us afterwards!”
“Nonsense,” Catherine snapped, hiding her own fear in anger as she shepherded the terrified band of women towards the few stunted trees at the side of the track.
“I’m not afeared!” Marie exclaimed, breaking away from the others. “Let me get my hands on them!”
“For the love of Heaven, keep quiet!” Catherine tried to calm the woman. “If we’re silent and still, maybe they won’t see us at all.”
It was almost fully light now and she had little faith in her own confident assurances – especially with Simon’s nurse in this state. At first Marie had flatly refused to leave Radenoc – she and Brigitte had practically had to drag her away. Catherine had hoped, of course, that she and the other women could get to Lanhalles and sail across to Ile Yoc’h as she had before. They had headed in that direction on first leaving the castle. But, unmistakable against the night sky, the fishing village was burning – the Norman interloper must have already reached it with his army and there would be no escape that way.
After that, snagged by gorse, stumbling across the pitted heathland, Marie calling down curses on the invaders who were hurting her baby, they had eventually reached the road which led to Locronan just as the first hint of dawn was whitening the eastern sky. Catherine had some vague notion of going to find Veronique. Her mother’s maid had settled near there with relatives of Guillaume Rénard’s, she recalled. Had Father Alain been at his home she could have taken refuge with him, but he had gone and she felt as if she had lost her last remaining friend.
The horsemen, more than thirty in number, were visible now in the distance. Catherine drew her cloak more firmly round her. Keeping a tight grip on Marie’s arm and forcing her not to move, Catherine tried to blend in with the others. After all, she was dressed no better than they were – she had worn this gown in the fields yesterday and had no veil. She looked nothing at all like a baron’s noble sister. And in any case, surely they would all be too concerned with fighting to have any interest in women. She closed her eyes, praying that they would ride past without stopping.
For a while it looked as if her prayer would be answered. Then, as the first men drew abreast of them, Marie suddenly tore herself from Catherine’s grasp and ran forward, shaking her fist and shouting.
“Filthy Normans!” she screamed. “Murdering bastards!”
A cloakless rider in a green surcoat, mounted on a huge grey horse, shouted a curt command and the troop slithered to an abrupt halt.
“Invaders and thieves!” Marie continued undaunted. Then, as a silence fell, she spat contemptuously.
“Traitors – and women,” said the leader. “How very fortunate.”
Something in his voice made Catherine shiver.
“Take a look at them, Rénard. Choose one for me. The rest of you may share the others.”
As the rider by his side began to dismount there were cheers and ribald comments from the other soldiers. The women around Catherine were trembling and desperately begging her, in whispers, to save them. She longed to speak sharply to them, to tell them at least to try to be brave and dignified, but to do so would have given her identity away. The Norman must not know who she was. She pulled her hood further down over her face with hands which were not entirely steady.
“It’s Guillaume Rénard, my lady!” Brigitte hissed.
Radenoc’s former captain had crossed the turf towards them and there was shock in his eyes as he recognised Catherine. She sent him a desperate, pleading look. Surely, even if he had gone over to the enemy, he would not betray her too.
Rénard appeared to be critically considering all of the women. Most were older than Catherine and some were plain. After a few moments, he pulled forward one of the laundry-maids. She was one of the younger ones, plump and comely. Catherine remembered castle gossip that she was a light-skirt, keen on bed-sport. It was a good choice.
“This wench is a good armful, my lord. She’ll warm your bed for you.”
There were whistles and catcalls from the other men and shouts of approval. The girl burst into noisy tears and Catherine longed to slap her.
“I question your judgement, captain,” the leader said, “I think I must look for myself.”
He did not dismount. Turning the big horse, he rode towards the women, drawing his sword as he did so.
“Now then, let me see.”
With the sword-point placed beneath their chins, the women were forced to lift their faces for his inspection, snivelling with fear as they did so. He came to Catherine last, using the weapon first to lift back her hood. Instinctively, without waiting to be forced, she raised her chin, meeting his eyes defiantly.
She could hardly see his face as the helmet had broad nose- and cheek-guards. His eyes were blood-shot and he was roughly bearded. She shrank under his burning gaze.
“This is the one,” he growled. “Bring her, Rénard.”
Guillaume murmured an apology as he guided Catherine towards his own horse.
“I’m sorry, my lady. There’s nothing I can do.”
“I know,” she replied, trying to quell her fear.
Catherine allowed herself to be lifted into the saddle, shutting her ears to the guffaws and comments of the other soldiers as they squabbled over the remaining women.
Having taken so long in their desperate, circuitous flight from the castle, their return journey seemed to take almost no time at all. The drawbridge was lowered at a shouted command from the man in green – his forces were evidently already in control.
Catherine thought desperately as Guillaume drew rein and dismounted. Should she, even now, reveal her identity to her enemy, begging him to treat her according to her status?
“Shall I tell him who I am?” she asked the captain in a whisper.
“Better not -it might make it worse.” He lifted her down. “I’ll pray for you.”
“Give the wench to me.”
The leader had dismounted from the grey and removed his helmet. Catherine caught a fleeting glimpse of scar on one cheek and tousled, short black hair before he seized her, throwing her unceremoniously over his shoulder and marching up the steps to the Hall. Her heart thudded in fear as he strode rapidly through into the solar, up the steps, across the battlements and then up the steep winding stairs which led to the highest chamber of the Western Tower. He clearly knew exactly where he was going and for a moment, surprise interrupted Catherine’s terror. But of course, his troops were here already, she recollected, he must have sought out the lord’s chamber earlier that day.
He lifted the latch and kicked the door open, crossing the room to dump her on the furs which covered the bed. Catherine began a silent ‘Hail Mary’ as he dropped the cross-bar into place, stripped off his gauntlets and began to remove his tunic and mail-shirt. She knew, this time, that there would be no escape. There was no Simon here to rush to her defence. All the soldiers were under the Norman’s command – even Guillaume Rénard was powerless. And she was, after all, just a woman – her maidenhead, perhaps even her life, was expendable. She blinked back the tears which had sprung into her eyes and on a sudden impulse untied the ribbons which fastened her braids, roughly combing out her hair with shaking fingers. This was the only wedding night she would ever have. There was no point in fighting him.
Walking unsteadily, as if drunk, Raoul moved towards the girl who knelt on the bed. Her hair, gleaming a coppery-bronze in a shaft of pale sunlight, seemed oddly familiar for a second. But her face, pale and beautiful, was that of a stranger. Remembering Damona, his lust rose and he pushed her roughly backwards.
Catherine willed herself not to flinch as his lips crushed bruisingly onto hers. In her mind, she was back in the smoky Hall again, Bellec’s hands pushing aside her garments, his fingers probing her tender flesh. Then she had fought; now she forced herself to lie still, passively submitting. As he first thrust fully into her clenched, rigid body, an involuntary cry escaped her. Her attacker paused, lifting his body away from hers. She shut her eyes tightly and clamped her lips shut. Moments later, when he thrust again, she found that she could bear her ordeal silently. Then, mercifully quickly, it was all over. He gave a hoarse cry as his lust was satisfied and collapsed onto her.
Catherine lay still beneath the heavy weight of the man’s body. It was done. She was a virgin no longer – she was used, soiled, worthless, dishonoured. Tears gathered in her eyes. She didn’t sob, or make a sound. The tears just welled up and silently rolled down into her hair. What could she do? Having taken his pleasure, would the Norman let her go?
Time passed and eventually, her tears ceased. Her attacker lay exactly as he had before. If hadn’t been for the hoarse rasp of his breathing, Catherine might almost have thought that he was dead, he was so completely motionless. Suddenly, she had to move; she couldn’t bear to stay like this, spread-eagled under him. Carefully, gently, she tried to ease herself upwards a little but it was no use; he was too heavy. The thought of waking him, having to face him again, was abhorrent but it was worse, somehow, to remain as she was. Exerting all her strength, she manoeuvred, pushed and wriggled until she was free. He didn’t stir. The rhythm of his breathing didn’t change. It was as if someone had knocked him senseless.
Catherine crossed to the window-seat and sat down, shaking with renewed shock and disgust. She was sore where he had used her and she could feel, inside, a slimy wetness. Determinedly, she tightly re-braided her hair, regretting the impulse which had made her loosen it before. Below her, outside the tower, there was the familiar suck and surge of the sea. The tide was out. If she had only told Gilles the tower’s secret, he could have used the passage now, as her father had, to kill his enemy.
The thought of it gave her courage. Had the Norman had a sword or a dagger on him when he brought her here? She went over to the pile of his discarded clothing. The green tunic was stained and it stank. The mail-shirt was heavy and rust-free with constant wear. His gloves lay where had dropped them. There was nothing else. She returned cautiously to the bed. He still wore his shirt and leather breeches – even his boots.
Barbarian, she thought contemptuously. He was just as bad as Marie had said. Guiltily she remembered the other women and wondered how they had fared.
She had to steel herself to touch him. Biting her lip, terrified in case he woke up, she forced herself to search him thoroughly. But there was nothing there and even her exclamation of anger failed to make him stir. Then another idea occurred to her. Perhaps Gilles had left a weapon in this room – in one of the chests or coffers. She went to each in turn, rummaging through its contents. But again she found nothing. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes and she slumped back onto the window-seat in despair.
Did she have to sit here and wait until he allowed her to leave? She was almost tempted to waken him deliberately – to kick him and slap him and pour out all her fury and disgust. But what would he do then? Kill her? Despite his abuse of her, she didn’t want to die. He was more likely to rape her again, just to show how much in his power she was. If she wasn’t such a coward she could use the passage herself to escape from Radenoc. Almost as soon as the thought arose, she dismissed it – the very idea of climbing hundreds of feet down into the darkness of the cliff below made her head swim. She knew she couldn’t do it.
Another thought suddenly occurred to her. Her father and her brother always posted guards outside the chamber door. Had the Norman? She could hear the distant sounds of activity in the courtyard and elsewhere in the castle, but here everything seemed quiet. In any case, she could always claim that his lordship was finished with her and had told her to go.
Casting one last anxious glance at the bed, Catherine straightened her shoulders and crossed the room. Swiftly, she lifted the bar and set it aside, then, holding her breath, she swung the door open. There was no-one there. Almost giddy with relief, she ran down the stairs, and out onto the battlements. She paused to peer over the parapet into the courtyard. It was bustling with men and horses – there seemed to be hundreds of them. She ducked hastily out of sight and ran on.
The solar was empty and Catherine fled swiftly through it and up the stairs beyond. The door of Simon’s chamber stood empty. Was her brother safe? Would Gilles take care of him? She pushed the thoughts aside – she was powerless now to help Simon; she couldn’t even help herself. She ran on and moments later reached her own room.
Marie and Brigitte, who were sitting in the window, sprang up with delighted cries as she opened the door, then rushed forward to embrace her.
“Lady Catherine!”
“You’re unharmed!” they cried.
Unaccountably, their exclamations irritated Cat
herine and she pushed them away.
“I’m alive, yes – but unharmed, no. And you?”
“They were quite decent, really,” Brigitte said, blushing. “Mine was a lad called Thomas, from Morbihan. He didn’t force me. And they didn’t bother with Marie ‘cos she kept on yelling.”
“I’m glad someone still understands loyalty,” Catherine said coldly. “Are you able to move freely in the castle? I notice you didn’t trouble to bar the door.”
“We’re safe enough, for the moment,” Marie said gloomily. “You never know what the Norman bastards’ll do next.”
“Are there fires lit in the kitchen?”
“Yes, my lady.” Brigitte giggled. “It makes you hungry, don’t it?”
“What?”
“Bed-sport, m’lady.”
“How dare you!” She slapped the girl hard. “Go and fetch the bath-tub and jugs of hot water. If you had been treated as I have, you wouldn’t be laughing about it.”
As the door shut behind the two women, Catherine pulled off her shoes and unfastened the silver brooch which she always pinned to the front of her gown. ‘Yours to command’ – those were the words which were inscribed on it. She had thought them stupidly romantic when Farzel Le Goff had made it for her. Anger and misery welled up in her heart. There was no-one at Radenoc who could help her now.
Chapter Fourteen
Catherine stayed in her chamber for the rest of that day. She lost her temper with the maids when they complained about the jug after jug of water that she had made them lug up from the kitchens but eventually she realised that they were right – she would never be clean again: no amount of washing would undo the foulness of the rape. She allowed herself to be dried, helped into a clean shift, and tucked into her own unsullied bed. She wished that Sévrine or her mother were with her still and when she was finally left on her own and the door was securely barred, she sobbed into her pillow like a broken-hearted child.
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