Armand's Daughter

by Diana Dickinson

  “He probably bedded her too. They say she has an eye for pretty young men!”

  “Catherine!”

  “Does that sound like the history of the rightful heir to a powerful barony?”

  Father Alain sighed.

  “Perhaps not.”

  “He’s an adventurer, an opportunist, a scoundrel.”

  “I shall make enquiries, my dear. If what you suspect about his parentage is true, then I am very, very sorry. And I shall pray that no child comes from your union.”

  “Oh, Father,” Catherine wailed, “so shall I.”

  Over the days that followed, Catherine continued to stay in her own room. She preferred Marie rather than Brigitte to wait on her. The younger girl’s enthusiasm for her own lover angered Catherine considerably. Marie, at least, had nothing good to say about the invaders. When the contingent from Morbihan was due to leave, and Brigitte requested permission to travel with them, Catherine consented with some relief.

  Part of her, terrified that she might have conceived, would have liked to continue to refuse all food and drink. Her healthy young body had resumed its demands after its fast was broken and, although she ate sparingly, she did not reject the nursery-fare with which Marie tempted her mistress’s appetite. In Catherine, shocked and weakened by her ordeal, she found a substitute for Simon, whose loss she mourned night and day.

  “Lord Gilles will be back, my lady. Then we’ll make him pay.”

  Although the thought of Raoul’s possible defeat was attractive, Gilles’s return would bring Bellec – and no comfort to Catherine. The desire for vengeance still burned fiercely in her heart though she said nothing about it to Father Alain, the only member of the household whom she permitted to visit her. She had asked him to make arrangements for her to be admitted to the convent in Locronan – the one to which she had supposedly gone when in fact she had been on Ile Yoc’h. It was the only future open to her, she believed. Before she left Radenoc, she wanted Raoul dead. The problem was how to achieve it.

  Before the end of September, Bertrand de Courcy and his troops departed, carrying with them the body of the dead squire, Etienne de Montglane. Even knowing what Gilles had done to him, Catherine hardened her heart against all sympathy for the boy or his master. Perhaps it was preferable to die rather than to live with the shame: she merely lacked the courage to take that escape herself.

  Brigitte, in tears, kissed her mistress good-bye. From the courtyard below came the sounds of departure: bugles, horses, the clink of armour. Catherine wished that they were all going away, to leave her in peaceful solitude once more.

  Two weeks later her uncle, the Count of Léon, and the Norman forces led by Eleanor’s barons also made preparations to go.

  “He must feel very secure,” Catherine said scathingly, “if he can afford to dispense with all his foreign supporters.”

  “I think he does,” said Father Alain. “And in any case he promised that he would send the Normans home. He’s keeping his word.”

  “A wonder the Duchess doesn’t need him in Caen.”

  “Catherine,” the priest said warningly. “He’s keeping a strong enough garrison here. Gilles’s forces are totally scattered. There’s really no threat.”

  “That’s what you think!” said Marie smugly. “Come the spring-time, then we’ll see.”

  “Since we’re speaking of Lord Raoul, did you ever hear tell of a murder, when he was here before?”

  “What do you mean? Someone that he killed? It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “No. He says a girl called Berthe, one of his minstrel troupe, took part in some ritual where she was murdered – something to do with the festival of Lugh. I wondered if you’d heard of it.”

  “Oh, yes. I do remember. Sévrine, my nurse, would remember it better than me – she was there. It took place on Melgorn.”

  “I thought perhaps it had. Lord Raoul’s anxious to know where the girl was buried.”

  Catherine was about to say that her body lay in the church-yard – in a grave dug near the rowan tree for fear of witches – when an idea came to her.

  “I don’t know, Father,” she said, turning away in case he should see the sudden excitement in her eyes. They had set a trap for Raoul the day that the girl had been buried: how relieved she had been then when he hadn’t walked into it. “I could go and ask Sévrine – she lives only a few miles to the north. Marie and I will go and see her.”

  “That would be kind.” Father Alain’s voice was suspicious.

  “If he is so concerned about a friend from long ago I may have misjudged Lord Raoul. I will do what I can.”

  “Are you really going to help him?” Marie demanded incredulously as she barred the door behind the priest.

  “Not to find her grave. His own maybe. I expect she was another of his whores.”

  “Tell me, my lady! I’ll do anything I can.”

  “First, Marie, we must speak privately with your brother Yon. Is he still in Kerhouazoc?”

  Catherine hadn’t seen him recently.

  “I don’t know. But I can easily find out.”

  In order to put her plan into operation, it was necessary for Catherine to give the appearance of having at least partially forgiven Raoul for what he had done to her. It took all of her self-control to speak calmly to him in the solar before dining in the Hall for the first time.

  “Father Alain tells me that... circumstances...had affected you adversely that night,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. “I must therefore blame those circumstances, and not you. Had you known who I was...”

  “Everything would have been different. I am sure of it.”

  Yes, Catherine thought, you probably would have killed me as well.

  “My offer of marriage is still open to you, Lady Catherine.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she coolly replied.

  She spoke to Yon Farzel the following day. On Marie’s instructions, he met her near Pointe de Landunvez, to the north of the castle. She had been able to command the use of a horse, her own having been taken by one of her brother’s soldiers. She had also been allowed to refuse an escort, to her relief.

  “I hardly think I am in any danger from my own people,” she had said. The Beauchamp man in charge of the stables had had the grace to blush. She had ridden out into the blustery October day with a new feeling of freedom and purpose.

  Over the last few years, since Gilles’s had taken up his inheritance, Catherine had seen little of the blacksmith’s son. He had tried to avoid trouble with Piriac or doing anything which would attract the attention of the Lord of Radenoc himself, his encounter with the Count of Léon remaining all too fresh in his mind. He had even spent some time away, in the outer islands and Ile Yoc’h. Catherine eagerly looked forward to seeing him again.

  If anything he was bigger, broader and blonder than ever, his Norseman ancestry written large for all to see. He would be well able to carry out her plan. But when Catherine explained it to him, he showed a marked reluctance to help her.

  “I see!” she exclaimed. “The promise on this brooch is just an empty one, is it?” She pointed to where it fastened her cloak.

  “No, Catherine, of course it isn’t. It’s just, well, I like Raoul de Metz. You may not realise this but a lot of folk from Kerhouazoc joined up with him, me included – and he’s treated us well. He’s done a lot of good for Radenoc already. He’s sent for...”

  “Stop! Stop! I can see that I’m wasting my time. Say goodbye to your brother, Marie. He’s no use to us.”

  “Do you know what that bastard did to my lady?” Marie demanded angrily.

  “Yes, but he’s only human. He’s a man, isn’t he? He couldn’t have a fight so he thought he’d have a wench instead. It’s natural. It’s not as if he knew who you was. You’re a right beauty, Catherine. I don’t blame him a bit. If I had the chance to -”

  “Oh!” Catherine exclaimed, blushing scarlet. “Are you saying that you’d have done the
same? Yon, I thought you were my loyal friend.”

  “It doesn’t mean I’m blind, Catherine. I got my feelings, same as the next man.”

  “If you do...admire me, I’d have thought you’d want to help me,” said Catherine cunningly. “I’d be able to reward you afterwards.”

  “My lady!” Marie was shocked.

  Catherine ignored her. She would soon be in St. Anne’s Convent, far from the lusts of men. She wouldn’t be called upon to reward anyone. Men! She had thought better of Yon, wrongly it seemed. They were all the same. At least, if he desired her, he might be prepared to do what she wanted.

  Eventually, without enthusiasm, he agreed.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he said gloomily.

  “That’s a risk I’m prepared to take. Here, take the brooch. When you have fulfilled my commands, you may return it to me. When the time comes, I’ll send you word. Come along, Marie.”

  The girl struggled onto the saddle behind her mistress and they set off back towards the castle. In Catherine’s heart there was a faint new glimmering of hope.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For a week after Catherine’s meeting with Yon, the castle was buffeted by gales and lashed with torrential rain. She fretted with impatience but kept a careful watch on the tides, a crucial factor in her scheme. Had her conscience allowed her to betray the family secret, she could simply have told Yon to make use of the tunnel, climb to the Western Tower and despatch Raoul that way. But not only did she believe, fiercely, that this information should never be given to an outsider, she also had no idea where the other end of the tunnel was located. To find out, she would have to go through it – and that she could not bring herself to even attempt. She had no alternative but to wait for the weather to improve.

  Eventually, towards the end of October, the winds died down and the sea calmed. On a bright, unseasonably mild day, Catherine announced that she was going to visit Sévrine, her former nurse, in order to discover the whereabouts of Berthe’s grave. Luckily, Raoul had not publicised his wish to find it – he had spoken directly only to Father Alain. Had he done so, any number of people could have told him: Guillaume Rénard for one. He had led the troop of soldiers who had lain in wait for the fugitive – Raoul himself – the day she was buried. Catherine guessed that the new Lord of Radenoc wished to keep his humble origins known to as few people as possible – and for this she had to be grateful.

  She obviously could not go on a journey of some miles with only her maid in attendance. It was easy enough, however, to commandeer the services of a number of local men who had taken service at the castle. Buying their silence about her true destination was also easy. She had no intention of actually seeing her nurse and renewing their unsatisfactory relationship – for all Catherine knew Sévrine might even be dead. The men had no objection at all to simply lounging around at their leisure for a few hours – especially in Lanhalles – before escorting their lady back home.

  As they rode out, Catherine worried about what she would find in the fishing hamlet. She had seen the flames. Had people died? Were all the dwellings destroyed? In her self-imposed seclusion she had heard no word of their plight. She should have done something before today.

  When they reached the shore, Catherine was amazed. There was no trace of a fire. Far from being ruined, the houses were in perfect order – in fact there seemed to be more of them and they were better built than Catherine remembered. It was true that in Piriac’s reign of terror she had limited her visiting to what could be justified on medical grounds – and Lanhalles had never been truly part of the manor – but surely she could not have forgotten so much. To her right, back from the shore, there was a long, low structure with open sides which Catherine was sure she had never seen before – its heather thatch looked new. By the fragrant cloud rising from an enclosed stone-built part at one end, she guessed that it was a smoke-house such as she had seen on Ile Yoc’h. Puzzled, she dismounted and dismissed her attendants.

  One of the stout corner posts of Edain’s hut was blackened by fire, Catherine noticed as she reached it. Why had it done so little damage?

  “Well, my dear – “ The woman emerged from the low doorway, a welcoming smile on her weathered face. “- I’ve been a’waitin’ for you.”

  Catherine embraced her.

  “Come right in an’ sit yourself down. How d’ye like my snug new place, then?”

  “It is new, is it? How’s that?” Catherine settled herself and accepted the cup of ale which Edain had poured for her. “People say Gilles set the place ablaze. I presume that’s not true.”

  “Aye, ‘tis true enough!” Edain spat. “May God rot his villainous soul. It was all but destroyed.”

  “But...everything looks so good. I’m surprised you could afford repairs.”

  “We couldn’t, my dear. But our new Lord, God bless his sweet face, has paid for all – aye, and sent his own men to carry out the work. Did you see our fine new smokery?”

  “Yes, but...Do you mean Raoul paid for all of this?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  Edain laughed.

  “Aye, my dear. ‘Tis plain as the nose on your face that he’s one of the old Lord’s. But I’d a damn sight rather have a bastard with a heart that a right-born son with none.”

  Catherine’s own heart sank. She had intended to tell Edain her troubles, had looked forward to joining with her in vehemently condemning the upstart who had usurped the barony. She’d been wrong, clearly.

  “I’m surprised at you, Edain,” she said crossly.

  “Are you indeed? Haven’t you got eyes in your head? I thought you’d have noticed ‘is looks. There’s more than a few hearts a-flutter down here when he’s with us, I can tell you. The wenches’d be lining up to warm his bed. An’ not just the lasses, neither.”

  She winked broadly and Catherine, who had thought with horror of the young squire, caught her real meaning and felt sick.

  “That’s disgusting. Are you saying that a woman of your age would...?”

  “I’m not so old, Catherine. I like a bit of sport – not that he’d have eyes for such as me. Now if you weren’t related...”

  “Stop!” Catherine cried and her stomach heaved.

  “Whatever’s wrong? Oh, my poor dear, take this.”

  She thrust a basin into Catherine’s hands and held her forehead while she retched.

  Later, lying on Edain’s bed, she felt better. Having deprived herself of food, her return to a normal diet must have disagreed with her, she thought. She still refused to sit at a table with the usurper but she had started to allow Marie to bring a few of the dishes to the solar where she could eat privately. Had something yesterday been particularly highly spiced? She hadn’t thought so – yet she had felt somewhat nauseous that morning – and, come to think of it, the day before. She would have to be careful to choose plain dishes in future.

  Edain left her alone for a while and Catherine slept.

  “You’d better be gettin’ back, my dear, or they’ll be sending out to look for you.” The light was fading beyond the doorway and Edain was standing by the bed-side, a lantern in her hand. “I’ve told the wenches to get your fellows to their horses.”

  Catherine sat up carefully.

  “Have they been misbehaving?”

  “Not at all! They have drunk some ale, played a little dice and Jeanne and Sylvie have a few more coins in their purses. Oh, and Annie Kerber has decided that Bol Le Tocquer must become her adopted son, he likes her plum-cake so much.”

  “That’s all right, then.” Catherine forced herself to smile.

  “Is something else troubling you?” Edain’s eyes followed Catherine as she got to her feet.

  “My older brother has fled the country talking my little brother with him. I have been left in the hands of his enemy. That’s quite enough, isn’t it?”

  Edain sighed.

  “Perhaps. You’d do well to make your peace wit
h Raoul de Metz.”

  “I’m sorry, Edain. I can’t.”

  “So be it, then.”

  She kissed the girl on both cheeks then helped her into the saddle when her horse was brought. As they turned to ride away, Catherine looked back. Edain was watching her, a strange but knowing expression on her face.

  By Catherine’s calculation, the perfect day would be the third from her visit to Lanhalles. The day before, she sent Marie to see Yon in Kerhouazoc. She herself requested a private audience with Raoul.

  It was the first time since the rape that she had been alone with him. She had chosen to meet him on the battlements which ran between the solar and the Western Tower. Her shout would quickly summon aid. They were visible but inaudible to those in the courtyard below. Despite all of this, Catherine still felt unsafe.

  “The island of Melgorn was sacred to the old religion,” Catherine explained, having told him that Berthe was buried there in a special secret burial site.

  “I had heard that before,” Raoul said. “I suspected that it might be the place.”

  “To avoid offending those who still believe in the old gods – although, of course to worship them is forbidden – I think it would be best if you went there alone – and unarmed. I understand you are popular with the local people. You should have nothing to fear.”

  “I would like to think so.”

  “I’ve heard that they sing your praises.”

  His colour rose at her tone.

  “Is Melgorn wholly an island? Do I remember something about a causeway across?”

  “Not a causeway, exactly but when the tide is right, one can walk across. I’ll guide you there and show you the grave.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Lady Catherine. But why? Why should you inconvenience yourself to help me?”

  “Father Alain wishes me to be of service. My nurse is too old and stout to show you herself. In any case, as you know, her home is now some distance from Radenoc. There are others who know the place, of course – but perhaps you do not wish many people to know about your interest in this girl?”