When Brigitte knocked tentatively on her door the next morning, she told her to go away and leave her alone, she wanted nothing. Eventually, at about noon to judge from the sky beyond the window, Catherine wrapped herself in a robe and dragged herself from the bed. She felt drained, empty, and too weary to care about anything. When Brigitte returned, she allowed her to come in. To please her she drank a little water but would eat nothing. She couldn’t face it. Gradually, sunk in lethargy and misery, the slow hours passed away.
The next day was the same. At about mid-morning, when Brigitte rapped on her door again, urgently calling her name, Catherine unbarred it and let the girl come in.
“My lady, you’ll never guess! Who do you think is here?” Brigitte was big with news.
“I neither know nor care,” Catherine replied indifferently, sitting down on the window-seat.
“It’s Lord Guy!”
“Who?”
“Him that was going to marry you, madam. Your lover! You know, Guy de Bégard.”
“For Heaven’s sake...”
“Only he’s not your lover now, m’lady – he’s married already and she, his wife I mean, is your...your cousin, I suppose – he’s married to the daughter of your uncle!”
“My uncle?”
“Your Uncle Roland, my lady, him that’s Count of Léon now that t’other one has died, God rest his soul. Oh yes, and he’s here too.”
“Who is?
“Your uncle. And he wants to see you – in the Great Hall, as soon as you’re ready.”
“My Uncle Roland is here?”
“Yes, my lady, quick. Where’s a decent gown?”
“Brigitte, I don’t understand. How can my uncle be here? Has the Norman been defeated?”
“Bless you, no, my lady – he’s been fighting with him. So has Lord Guy. And the Count of Morbihan – that’s my Thomas’s Lord, you know.” Brigitte blushed rosily.
“My uncle is here, in Radenoc, and has been helping this...this invasion?”
“Oh yes. So have ever so many others. You know all the men that kept vanishing from Kerhouazoc? Well they all -”
“Enough! I don’t want to listen to this silly gossip. If my uncle’s here at least I have one friend, someone who I hope will make him pay!”
“What do you mean, my lady? Make who pay?”
“The Norman, of course.”
“Yes, madam, but you see he isn’t -”
“Quiet!” Catherine screamed the word. “Keep your mouth shut and help me dress.”
A short time later, dressed in amber velvet, her veil fastened with a jewelled bronze circlet, Catherine left the shelter of her room and made her way towards the Hall. He would be there, her attacker. How could she face him? In her mind she saw again the red-rimmed eyes, the rough dark beard; smelt the foulness of his breath. She swallowed, her legs trembling. She had eaten nothing for two days but she still felt nauseated and sickness rose in her throat at the thought of him. She had to force herself to go on.
When she reached the curtained archway which led to the Hall she stopped.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
The sound of men’s voices came from the room beyond and although it was broad daylight, her terrifying encounter with Bellec flooded back into her mind.
“Come along, my lady. You’ve no need to be afeared.” Brigitte pulled the curtain aside and led her mistress through. “Here she is, my lord, safe and sound,” she announced, catching sight of the Count of Léon.
“Catherine! My dear niece!”
Roland bounded up the steps and swept her into a warm embrace. She clung to him, trembling, unable to speak.
“I was delighted – and surprised – to learn that you were still here,” he said, releasing her but keeping an arm round her shoulders. “We had thought that Radenoc was totally deserted. I feared that Gilles might have forced you and Simon to go with him. Is the little one here? Is he well?”
“No – I mean – Simon is not here. Gilles took him. Uncle, where is my brother? What’s happened to him? Was there a battle? My maid said that you fought against him but I find that hard to believe.”
“You might well be sceptical,” Roland said grimly. “For all his boasting, ultimately, Gilles is a coward.”
“What do you mean?”
“By the time we reached their camp, your brother and all his best men, had fled – taken ship from Lanhalles – which they fired before they left. The few miserable troops that remained simply laid down their weapons and begged for mercy. It was the same at Locronan. Raoul had given them such a fright that they just meekly surrendered. There was no-one to fight at all. Raoul felt quite cheated.”
“So the Norman has Radenoc – and with your blessing.”
“Norman! Raoul isn’t a Norman.” To Catherine’s astonishment her uncle laughed. “And whatever he is, he’s a better man than Gilles, that’s for sure. And his anger was fully justified, in the circumstances. Come and meet him.”
“No!”
Roland took her icy hand.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Lord Raoul – here is Catherine, my niece. Now you can renew your acquaintance.”
She froze, overwhelmed with terror, aghast at what she had heard her uncle say. But where was he? Her eyes, travelling anxiously over the faces in front of her, saw no-one like the man she remembered with such disgust. Instead, coming towards her with a pleasant smile was...Tristan! She heard herself cry out the name and then the world went black as she crumpled to the floor.
When she came to, she was in the solar, lying on the rush-strewn floor with a cushion under her head, and Brigitte was rubbing her hands and calling her name. Her uncle and various others were standing looking worriedly down at her.
“Help me to sit up,” she whispered.
Roland knelt and lifted her to the window-seat then held a wine-cup to her lips.
“Good girl,” he said as she swallowed a little of the liquid.
“Enough,” she protested as he offered the cup again. “Is he here?” She must see him again, find out if what she had seen before was real or whether she was losing her mind.
“Who? Do you mean Lord Raoul?”
Catherine nodded.
The Count beckoned him forward.
“Lady Catherine,” Raoul said, bowing deeply. “I am delighted to see you again.”
She hadn’t lost her mind. Older now, with that scar on his cheek, it was her handsome minstrel, unmistakably. But he was also her attacker – he had shaved, wore a clean robe, his eyes, green and so like her father’s, were no longer bloodshot, but it was him.
“How can you say so, after what you have done?” she said, her voice trembling with horror.
“What do you mean? You called me ‘Tristan’. You’ve forgotten, my lady. I never played that part – I was Iseult, though I blush to confess it in front of your uncle.”
“My memory isn’t at fault. But yours seems to be!”
“Lady Catherine? What’s wrong?” Raoul reached out to take her hand but she snatched it away from him as if she had been stung.
“Don’t you touch me! Are you denying it?”
“Denying what? My lord, I think the girl’s nerves are overwrought. Perhaps her maid should help her to her chamber so she can lie down.”
One of the other men had been speaking aside to Lord Roland.
“I think that’s wise, Lord Raoul,” the Count said. “I’m told that one of Gilles’s cronies made some sort of assault on her the night before we got here. It’s clearly affected her badly.”
“What Bellec began, he finished!” Catherine was on her feet, an accusing finger pointing at Raoul.
“What is she saying?” asked Roland, clearly mystified.
“I’ve no idea. I met the lady once before, as I told you, when I was a minstrel – seven or eight years ago. She was just a child. I haven’t seen her since. I would, indeed, have hardly recognised her: she has changed a great deal.”
His app
reciative smile brought the blood rushing to Catherine’s cheeks.
“Two days ago!” she panted. “You saw me two days ago when you raped me! You might have thought I was a peasant then, but now? Can’t you see who I am?” She tore the circlet from her head and pulled off her veil. “Don’t you recognise me now?”
He shook his head, frowning slightly. Yesterday, at noon, he had woken up alone – having slept almost round the clock, they had told him. He remembered nothing. Before, when it was dark, the boy, Gilles’s messenger, had come to their camp – he remembered that. Then Raoul must have set out to take Radenoc – and he had: here he was. Gilles, apparently, had fled. Poor Etienne had been found murdered in the chapel and Bertrand would convey his body home to Montglane as Raoul, himself, must obviously stay here.
The girl was sobbing wildly as she unbraided her hair. He longed to reach out and touch its silken glory – even to hold her in his arms and comfort her. He had dreamed once about a woman with hair like hers – the colour of copper-beech leaves warmed by the sun. Poor Lady Catherine, she was mad, clearly.
“Where’s Guillaume Rénard?” she suddenly cried. “He was a witness to what you did. He won’t deny it. He’s not a liar like you!”
“What do you think, Lord Raoul?” Roland asked him. “Should we fetch the man?”
“Surely that’s unnecessary,” said another.
“Why not if it will bring her some peace? She’s quite beside herself.” He turned to Catherine’s maid as someone was sent to find the captain, “ You, girl, is there a soothing draft to be had? Have you a herbalist? A healer?”
Brigitte looked at Raoul suspiciously.
“It’s my lady that’s the healer here, sir,” she said indignantly. “There’s no-one that can give her potions to make her forget what she knows to be true.” She turned to her mistress and put her arm round her. “Don’t you fret, lady. Some may try an’ tell untruths but others won’t. We know what we know.” She shot Raoul a disgusted look.
It was some time before Rénard appeared. By the time he arrived, Catherine had calmed herself a little. She sat in the window, clutching her trembling hands in her lap. Brigitte, a comfort for once, sat beside her, angry and indignant on her behalf.
The Count of Léon and Catherine’s attacker stood some distance away, talking quietly. She was aware that Raoul looked from time to time in her direction and there was a troubled expression on his all too beautiful face. If he hoped that Radenoc’s captain would support his denial then she was sure he would be mistaken.
“You sent for me, my lord.” Rénard’s bluff familiar voice brought Catherine to her feet again, her heart thumping.
“Indeed I did.” It was Raoul who replied although the older man had spoken to the Count.
“Well, sir?” Guillaume’s voice was cold.
There was a pause in which he, she wouldn’t think of him as ‘Tristan’ now, looked uneasily from the captain to Catherine and back again.
“I want you to tell me the truth, without fearing whom it may hurt,” he said quietly.
“No-one could make me do otherwise, my lord.”
“Good. Tell me then whether, two days ago, I met with Lady Catherine.”
Now it was Rénard who hesitated. He glanced at Catherine and she nodded.
“Yes, my lord, you did.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“She, and a number of other women from the castle, was found by you near the road to Locronan. They were fleeing from the castle.”
“What happened?”
“We had just had word that Lord Gilles had escaped by ship – if you recall, my lord – and you were...disappointed at being denied the opportunity to fight.”
“Are you telling me that I took my ‘disappointment’ out on his sister?”
“You didn’t know who she was, my lord. She was dressed like a peasant woman and we thought it wiser to keep her identity from you.”
“I see. What did I do?”
“I don’t understand why you are asking me this, my lord. Do you not remember?”
Raoul gave an incredulous laugh.
“I remember nothing at all, Rénard. I must ask you to tell me. Please continue. What did I do to this supposed peasant?”
“You took her to your bed, my lord. What happened then, if you have no memory of it, only she can tell.”
“Well?” Catherine quailed as Raoul swung round to face her. “What did I do to you? Did I rape you?”
There was fury and disgust in his eyes.
“Yes,” she said quietly, tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “You did.”
“But after all, Raoul -” A man whom Catherine didn’t recognise laid a hand on her attacker’s arm. His voice, gentle and consoling, grated on Catherine’s ears. “After all, it was what Gilles did to Etienne.”
Raoul stared at him blankly for a second then gave a hoarse cry as the hideous truth of it flooded back.
“Oh, God forgive me, Bertrand, I had forgotten that too!”
Raoul appeared to be weeping on the shoulder of the man he had called ‘Bertrand’. Others, including Catherine’s uncle, gathered round him. They seemed to have forgotten about her.
“Come,” Catherine whispered to Brigitte.
She took the girl’s hand and they slipped unnoticed from the solar. Reaching the sanctuary of her own chamber, a new and even more appalling thought occurred to Catherine.
Years ago when that minstrel had sought refuge in her room she had noticed and remarked on his resemblance to her half-brothers, her father’s bastards. He had questioned her about her family, had been hunted, and pursued, by her father’s guards. She, stupid, naive little fool, had imagined that she’d fallen in love with him. Years later she had heard of another man – evidently one of Armand’s bastards – who had become a fighter and eventually a knight. Armand had warned Gilles about him. This man had gone on the Crusade and then returned, with powerful new friends, to threaten Radenoc. It had all been the same man: – Raoul... Tristan...the Norman baron, as she still thought of him. He, two days ago, had cruelly raped her but that had not been the only sin – it was worse, much worse than that – it was obvious now. He had her father’s – their father’s eyes. This wasn’t only rape, it was incest. Raoul de Metz was her half-brother.
Later that day various requests were brought to Catherine, shut securely in her chamber. Lord Raoul wished to speak to her – she angrily refused; her uncle wished to see her – she refused that too. Lord Raoul humbly begged that she would read the letter which his messenger carried. She refused to open the door to receive it. Eventually, at dusk, Father Alain du Val asked if he might speak to her and Catherine thankfully allowed Brigitte to admit him.
“Where have been, Father? I have needed you so desperately!”
Tears rose yet again in Catherine’s sore, red eyes as the priest embraced her.
“We will talk of that later, my dear. First, as I am sure you have not eaten I have brought food to hearten you. Allow Brigitte to bring it in – then let her go and refresh herself. May she, Catherine?”
“Yes, Father. If you wish.”
“Good girl.”
“Will you need me again tonight, my lady?” Brigitte’s colour rose.
“No. When Father Alain has gone, I shall sleep.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
She brought in a covered tray then, bobbing a curtsy, hurriedly left the room.
“She has a lover amongst the Normans,” Catherine said bitterly.
“Oh? I thought I’d seen her with one of the Morbihan men. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
“It hardly matters – he’s one of the enemy anyway.”
“Hush, my dear. Come, drink this gruel first. Speak later.”
Loath though she was to admit it, she did feel better once she had eaten. The priest built up the fire, fastened the shutters and lit the candles, bathing the room in a comforting rosy glow.
“Now, Catherine,” he asked gently,
sitting beside her and taking her hands in his, “what happened?”
It all tumbled out: the last day of the harvest, Gilles and the dead boy; Bellec, Simon, her desperate flight from Radenoc and finally, worst of all, the rape.
“Catherine, the boy that Gilles killed was Raoul’s squire – rumour says, his son.”
“Are you trying to excuse what he did to me?”
“Of course not. Though he didn’t know who you were.”
Catherine gave a hysterical laugh.
“No!”
“Catherine, I have a letter here from Lord Raoul. Will you read it?”
He took a piece of folded parchment from his pocket and handed it to her. Without even glancing at it, Catherine tossed it into the fire. Father Alain frowned.
“I think you are being a little hasty in your condemnation of him. I believe him to be a good man – one who has suffered much over the last few weeks.”
“You’re one of his supporters, are you?”
“Well, yes. I have to say that I am – as is your uncle and many more men of sound and discerning judgement.”
“I see. No wonder you don’t blame him for raping me.”
“I blame him no more than he blames himself. He most sincerely offers what reparation he can. The letter which you burnt was an offer of marriage.”
“Marriage!” Again Catherine gave another hysterical laugh. “Is it possible that he doesn’t know that such a thing is out of the question?”
“Why? If you should have a child...”
“Oh God!” She murmured, closing her eyes in renewed horror. She hadn’t thought of that. “Father, have you looked closely at your new lord?”
“I don’t see what...”
“Have you forgotten my father so quickly? Look at his eyes! They’re just like my father’s – my father’s and his. Why he even uses our family’s name! If I have a child it will be a monster, the product of the foulest sin.”
“He says that Lord Armand was his great-uncle,” Father Alain said rather dubiously, “and that his claim to the title is legitimate.”
“Legitimate!” Catherine spat the word. “He’s a minstrel, a crusader, a soldier of fortune.”
“It’s true that he was only knighted by Queen Eleanor when they were in the Holy Land and his Barony of Beauchamp was given to him by her in return for his service.”
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