Armand's Daughter

by Diana Dickinson

  “Not everyone would understand.”

  Clearly she had been his mistress, Catherine decided. She forced herself to speak coolly and calmly.

  “Quite. You would also be wise to tell no-one where you are going,” she continued. Was she going too far? Would he suspect her? “No-one goes to Melgorn nowadays. It has a reputation for evil. Your going there could well be misconstrued.”

  “Thank you for your advice. At what time should we leave?”

  “After the mid-day meal. We should then easily catch the tide.”

  “Good. I am grateful to you.”

  “You’ve no need to be.”

  She had a feeling that he had intended to bow or even to kiss her hand but she turned hastily away, afraid that he might see the excitement in her eyes.

  It was easy enough, the following day, to cause a number of trifling little delays to their departure. She claimed to be dissatisfied with all of the dishes which were brought to her at dinner, demanding that a new dish of broiled chicken be specially prepared for her. This, of course, took time. When the food arrived, she found, quite genuinely, that she could barely force down a few mouthfuls. Since her visit to Edain, nausea had continued to trouble her.

  After that she went to change her gown, came down in it to the courtyard, and then decided on a warmer one. In the courtyard she decided that her cloak was too thin so sent Marie to find one which she knew Brigitte had taken away with her. Once mounted she decided that the horse’s girth was loose and declared that she was sure the shoe on his left hind-hoof was troubling him. Another horse had to be found and saddled for her.

  Eventually, it must have been nearer to mid-afternoon when Catherine finally declared herself ready to leave.

  “Should we not postpone this?” Raoul asked, looking anxiously at the sun’s level in the sky. “It grows dark early these days.”

  “But the weather is fair. Storms may return tomorrow and then who’s to say when the tide will be right again?”

  “Very well, my lady,” he said. “Lead on.”

  The draw-bridge was shut behind them and they were crossing the flat plain in front of the castle before Catherine realised that Raoul was not, in fact, alone. The other riders had drawn level with her and she angrily pulled on her reins.

  “Who is this?” she demanded as Raoul stopped beside her. “I must insist that you send him back at once.”

  The red-haired youth had the insolence to grin at her, bowing in the saddle.

  “This is Connell, my lady, an old friend of mine.”

  Catherine frowned.

  “I thought I explained to you the secrecy and sanctity of Melgorn.”

  “Indeed you did. But Connell is an old enough friend to have also been part of that minstrel troupe long ago. He knew Berthe too – he wishes to pay his respects to her final resting place.”

  “I saw her dead there, Lady,” the young man said – he must have been her own age or perhaps a little older. “She didn’t deserve her fate, despite the dance she led poor old Pol.”

  “Pol?”

  “Her husband – poor sod.”

  “She wasn’t your – paramour, then?” Catherine glanced sidelong at Raoul.

  “No, Lady,” Connell answered. “’Twas my sister Damona that Raoul wanted.”

  “Catherine, let Connell come with us.”

  She started at his use of her name, without her formal title.

  “Oh, very well,” she said, urging her horse on ahead so that she could think, unobserved. Could Yon deal with two of them? Could she still find some way of getting this other fellow out of the way?

  As they rode south, following the shore, the veil of fog which hung over the sea seemed to be edging in closer. The sun, as it dipped into this grey band, became a strange red disk, shorn of all its rays. When Catherine reached a group of bent thorn-trees which grew beside the crossing point, she dismounted and looped her reins over a branch. She could hardly resist a crow of triumph. Fog and fading light suited her purpose beautifully and the tide was perfect. A man could walk across, but only just. The others reached her, stopped and dismounted and again delight and relief swept into Catherine’s heart. The boy called Connell was a cripple – he had only one proper leg. He’d never make it across to Melgorn.

  “Is it not wiser to ride across, my lady?” Raoul asked.

  “No,” she said firmly. “They say The Island frightens animals out of their wits. Tie your beasts securely to these trees.”

  As they led them over, Catherine pretended to notice Connell’s lameness for the first time.

  “I don’t think your friend will manage to cross,” she said quietly to Raoul in what she hoped was a sympathetic voice. “It would be kinder to tell him to stay here rather than risk him drowning. The currents are very strong.”

  “I have severe misgivings about this whole business. I think it would be better if we all went back.”

  “Melgorn affects some people like that.”

  He looked at her sharply.

  “What are you saying?”

  She shrugged. “It’s just pagan superstition, I know, but if you believe in evil spirits, you’d better stay away.”

  “Berthe’s murderer was a man. No, whatever fears I have, I must to go there and it may as well be today. Is the tide coming in or going out? That channel looks deep.”

  “Going out. If we go across now we will be sure of getting safely back later on.”

  “Con,” Raoul said, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “it would be best if you stayed here, I think. You’ll find it hard with the water so high. Lady Catherine will show me and I’ll bring you back another day.”

  Connell flushed and muttered something but to Catherine’s relief, he sat down on the turf without arguing. Catherine walked to the water’s edge.

  “Modesty demands that you go in front, my lord. I shall have to lift my skirts while I cross.”

  As she expected, his eyes turned swiftly in her direction. Avoiding them, she busied herself removing her shoes, disgusted at the archness she had put into her own voice. Raoul pulled off his boots and waded in.

  “It’s very deep and you’re right about the current,” he called back. “Wait until I’m across safely before you start.”

  “Very well!”

  Easily resisting any temptation to thank him for his courtesy, Catherine pulled her shoes back on then watched while he struggled towards the shore. The light was fading quickly as the sun sank. She stood on the brink as if hesitating anxiously before stepping in. She let a minute pass, then another. The channel was steadily filling. Determinedly she waited a few minutes more. Raoul seemed to be shouting something back to her but she could not catch the words.

  When she judged that it was impossible not only for her to walk across but for Raoul to return, she walked up the bank, untied her mount and heaved herself into the saddle. Connell looked up in surprise.

  “What’re you doing, Lady? Where’s Raoul?”

  Catherine untied the other horses’ reins and slapped their rumps to send them on their way.

  “Raoul will be on Melgorn for the next eight hours,” she told the astonished youth. “No-one can get to him and he cannot leave. I, meanwhile, am returning to Radenoc.”

  “This is some trick!” Connell exclaimed, leaping up.

  “How sharp you are. Your friend, by the way, is buried in the churchyard – should you wish to see her grave, it’s by the rowan tree.”

  She laughed and turned her horse away. As she urged him from a trot to a canter, she heard Connell calling Raoul’s name then there was a resounding splash as he threw himself into the water. He would drown, of course. Everyone knew the channel was impossible to swim on a rising tide – especially for a cripple.

  Raoul, standing worriedly on the Melgorn shore, also heard Connell’s shout and saw him dive into the water. He had already decided that Catherine had been mistaken about the tide and had shouted a warning that she must not attempt to cross. Whe
n he had seen her go to her horse, he assumed that she had heard him. Now, suddenly, he was unsure.

  Relentlessly, the current was trying to sweep Connell away. He was battling valiantly against it, but was making little headway. Raoul tried to wade in towards him but was in danger of losing his own footing. He wished that he had a rope or a branch that he could throw to Connell to help him, but there was nothing of any use. To his left, dunes rose above the channel; to his right the shore was rockier. If he went that way, where the current ran, perhaps he might be able to make a grab for him.

  “Make for me, Con!” he roared desperately, dashing along the shore and scrambling onto the rocks. “Come to me!”

  But Connell seemed to have stopped trying to swim, to be drifting helplessly.

  Panic and fury filled Raoul. Was everyone in his service doomed to die? Perhaps two could battle against this tide where one alone must fail. He stripped off his cloak and his tunic, ready to throw himself in. About to dive, he realised that Connell was swimming again – he’d been resting, harbouring all his resources, waiting to reach the right point before trying to break free. Now he had obviously summoned all his strength. Using his powerful arms like flails, he was slowly but steadily drawing nearer to his friend.

  Winding one end round his wrist, Raoul flung his cloak out across the water. Connell tried to reach it but failed, ducking under with a gurgling cry and momentarily losing his battle against the current. Raoul pulled the cloak back and tried again. It fell short and Connell made no attempt to catch it. The third time, Raoul waited until Connell had fought his way a few feet nearer before throwing it out again with all his strength.

  For a second he was unsure whether he’d succeeded, then he felt Con’s weight dragging on the cloth and braced himself to haul it, hand over hand, to the shore. After what seemed like hours of back-breaking effort, he was able to drag Connell, gasping and spluttering, out onto the rock. He sank down beside him, panting exhaustedly.

  “Raoul,” Connell croaked hoarsely once he had sufficient breath to speak. “My leg’s broken.”

  “Oh God!” Raoul groaned. “I’m afraid we’re stuck on this cursed island for the night. I doubt if I can set it for you.”

  To his astonishment, Raoul heard Connell start to laugh.

  “It’s not quite – as bad as that- Raoul,” Connell gasped. “I meant the wooden one!”

  Banging his fist against the rock, Raoul laughed uproariously for what seemed like the first time in weeks.

  “Seriously, though,” Connell said when they’d finally stopped, “yon Lady’s up to mischief, I fear: she’s trapped you here deliberately.”

  “You may be right,” Raoul agreed, wrapping his dry cloak round Connell and pulling on his own tunic.

  Connell explained about Berthe’s grave.

  “I did wonder why she suddenly seemed conciliatory. But her hatred of me is perfectly justifiable.”

  “What, even to the extent of having you murdered?”

  “You’re joking, surely. She wants me to have a cold and unpleasant night – tormented, I dare say, by ghosts and evil spirits.”

  “I doubt if that’s all, Raoul. Are you armed?”

  “No. Lady Catherine advised...”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you?”

  “I never go anywhere without this.”

  He pulled his dagger from its sheath and its blade reflected the last remnants of the sinking sun.

  “Well, you still haven’t convinced me, but before it’s pitch black, I suggest we try to find some shelter. I don’t suppose you have a lantern and some food tucked away too, Con, have you?”

  “Sorry. Can’t oblige.”

  “Put your arm round my shoulders and let’s see what we can do with three legs between the two of us.”

  “Of course, they’ll only be expecting one.”

  “One leg?” echoed Raoul, laughter bubbling up again as he helped Connell to stand. “Who will?”

  “Your assassins. That’s some consolation, I suppose.”

  “You’re talking nonsense, Connell.”

  “She told you to come alone, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then keep your wits about you. If you see anything, just drop me and do what you have to. Here, you’d better take this.”

  At the earnestness in Connell’s voice, even though he was still sceptical, Raoul took the dagger in his right hand and they began, slowly and carefully, to move across the rocks towards the mist swathed slope which lay beyond.

  About half way up it they paused to rest. The mist was swirling round them and, as the sky darkened, Raoul felt his fears return. It was not that he believed that Catherine had sent someone to murder him; he found the place itself eerie and chilling.

  “What do you remember about this island, Con?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Not that much, I admit. It was a long time ago and I thought coming here was an adventure – until I saw Berthe, that is. The old Baron did the killing, and all the rest of the business – you knew that, didn’t you? Some of them from Kerhouazoc told me: they called him ‘The Master’.”

  “I didn’t know for sure. Though I suppose I should have guessed.”

  Raoul remembered Armand’s utter exhaustion when he had first appeared in his chamber the night of the murder and how his loathsome Arab servant had revived him with a powder mixed in wine.

  “There’s bad blood in my family, Con,” Raoul said. “Armand, Gilles, they both had a liking for cutting throats, to say the least of it.”

  “She’s Armand’s daughter, don’t forget.”

  Raoul shrugged, refusing to consider it.

  “Do you remember where Berthe was killed? Is there a special place?”

  “Just over this rise I think the ground levels out. Then there are some stones: an upright and a flat one like an altar – Berthe was there.”

  “Right. We’ll make for that, I think. Then I’ll have a scout around.

  Near the top of the slope Raoul said in a whisper, “Are my eyes playing tricks on me, or is there a light ahead?”

  “There’s a light.”

  “It can’t be the sun, not now.”

  “No.”

  Raoul gripped the dagger more tightly, his heart pounding. As quietly as possible, they reached the top. Ahead of them, a fire was burning though its flames were indistinct in the fog. Both breathing hard, they moved silently nearer. There was a tall dark shape standing beyond the red glow.

  “Armand,” Raoul breathed, crossing himself.

  “It’s just the stone – the upright,” Connell whispered.

  “Thank God.”

  “Be careful – the other one must be nearby.”

  “There it is,” Raoul murmured after three more cautious paces.

  It was to the right of the fire, deeply embedded in the grass.

  Without further speech, they reached the upright. It stood at least ten feet tall and was twice as broad as a man. Connell leaned against it gratefully. Even with Raoul’s help, getting there, after his battle with the sea, had taken most of his remaining strength.

  Raoul looked about him. Rags of mist drifted past. The red glare of the flames seemed to blank off the distance even more. He moved forward and bent over the altar stone. A mottling of blackness showed where ancient runes and symbols had been carved on it. How many had died here, sacrificed to some pagan God? Raoul searched his mind for a prayer but found none – too much evil had permeated this place. He must deal with whoever had lit the fire then find some shelter.

  As he began to straighten up, someone fell on him from behind, knocking him to the ground. Aware that he had narrowly missed cracking his scull on the stone, Raoul summoned all of his strength to fight back. His assailant was human, that in itself gave Raoul comfort, though he was broad and strong. Surprisingly he didn’t seem to be armed. They rolled, struggling desperately for possession of Connell’s dagger. Wresting it, by brute force, from Raoul’s grasp, his
opponent flung it from them and closed his hands round Raoul’s throat. Connell, who had been waiting for his chance, sprang forward, scooped up the discarded weapon and flung himself on top of the stranger. He pulled his head back with one hand and with the other held the knife’s point to his throat.

  “Let him go now!” Connell yelled, hauling on the fellow’s hair.

  The strangle-hold obediently loosened. Raoul pushed himself free and knelt, fingering his bruises and trying to get his breath.

  “Is he anyone we know?” he said, once he could speak. His voice was choked and strained. “Roll the brute over, Con.”

  Connell shifted his weight to one side and did so, keeping his dagger firmly in place. The dying flames showed a young, pleasant face, curly pale hair and a massive frame.”

  “But you’re young Farzel, the smith’s boy, aren’t you?” Raoul said, aghast. “You joined my forces a few weeks ago. What’s your name...Yon? Is that it?”

  Yon nodded miserably.

  “Why the Devil were you trying kill me?”

  His assailant groaned.

  “I didn’t want to, my lord. I promised once to help someone – I had to do it.”

  “You were under an obligation to Lady Catherine. Is that what you mean? You can let him sit up, Con. I don’t think he’ll try anything else.”

  “I won’t, my lord. I swear it.”

  “What did Lady Catherine tell you do?”

  “It wasn’t -”

  “There’s no point in lying, Yon. I’m not a fool. I don’t even blame her.”

  “She said you’d come here, on your own, when the tide was nearly up. She said I was to bring some friends with stout sticks and – well – you know the rest.”

  Connell, suddenly alert, looked anxiously round into the shadows to see where others might be lurking.

  “Where are these friends?” he demanded, seeing no-one.

  “There’s none. Just me.”

  “Where’s your stout stick, Yon?” Raoul asked gently.

  “I didn’t bring one.”

  “Why?”