“I didn’t seem fair to me – one man, unarmed, on ‘is own against a pack of us. I’m strong enough to kill with me bare hands. If that’s not to be, well, it’s the will of God.”
“Amen,” said Raoul. “Come, shake my hand, Yon. I admire your courage and your chivalry.”
“Chivalry? I’m a peasant, not a lord,” Yon said, doubtfully taking Raoul’s outstretched hand.
“It’s not a question of rank. You take service with me at the castle. Who knows what you can be?”
“Can I work in the stables?” The misery in Yon’s voice had suddenly vanished.
“Is that what you want?”
“It’s what I always wanted.”
“So be it then,” said Raoul with a laugh. “Now is there anywhere on this accursed island where we can shelter from the cold?”
“There’s a cave, equipped with firewood and a blanket or two. An’ I brought some bread an’ ale. There’s not much but it’ll go down well, I reckon.”
“Good. I’ll have to help Connell. You lead the way.”
“I can carry ‘im, my lord – on my back, like. I’m quite strong.”
“I know,” Raoul said ruefully, rubbing his bruises.
Very early the next morning, they set off to walk back to Radenoc.
“This reminds me of my travelling days,” Raoul said with a chuckle. “A cold night, little food, damp clothes, and nothing but my feet to carry me. You’d make a good mummer, Yon – bottom man in the pyramid. Wouldn’t he, Con?”
“Aye.”
“I’ve never seen mummers, my lord,” Yon said, talking easily despite the weight he carried. “We don’t get ‘em this way. Folks say they came once but maybe they didn’t like us Bretons.”
“Maybe not!”
“Why are you laughin’, my lord?”
“Never mind, Yon. Never mind.”
When they reached the drawbridge, Yon stopped.
“If you still want me to come an’ work here I’ll get my gear and come back later, my lord, if I may. I’ll have to tell me Da, like.”
“Of course.”
“Will you give this to her, to Catherine... to prove that I at least tried to obey her commands?”
Yon unpinned a silver brooch from his tunic and handed it to Raoul. He turned it over and read the inscription.
“I’ll do that, Yon,” Raoul said.
Feeling unwell, Catherine had refused dinner and remained in her chamber. Later, curious to know why the alarm did not seem to have been raised at the new baron’s failure to return from Melgorn – Catherine had explained the night before that he had been most unfortunately stranded there – she went down to the solar with Marie.
Moments after taking a seat in the window, to her astonishment and horror, the curtains over the doorway parted and Raoul de Metz entered the room.
“I believe this is yours, my lady,” he said quietly as he came towards her, her silver brooch on his outstretched palm.
She stood up, slowly, aware that the blood was draining from her cheeks. As she reached out to take it, it seemed to be spinning and rushing away from her; there was a roaring sound in her ears, and for the second time in her life, she crumpled in a dead faint at Raoul’s feet.
Chapter Sixteen
“What’s the matter with me?” Catherine said crossly two days later.
She was in bed, hunched miserably over a basin. Having been carried to her chamber by servants, following her faint, she had remained there ever since, plagued by violent nausea.
“You’re pregnant,” Marie said bluntly, smoothing her mistress’s hair back from her face. “What did you think?”
“I can’t be,” Catherine exclaimed, pushing Marie away. “It’s unthinkable.”
“It’s true.”
“I know women are often sick in the morning when they are pregnant, but I’m sick morning, noon and night. I think someone’s trying to poison me.”
“Are your breasts sore?”
“Not sore, precisely; but they are tender. Why?”
“It’s a sure sign. You take my word for it: you’re pregnant.”
“Nonsense!”
As the days went by, Catherine was forced to admit to herself that Marie might be right. Apart from anything else, there had been no sign of her bleeding, normally so regular. One morning, to her delight, there was a trace of blood. She looked forward, for once with pleasure, to the usual pain and unpleasantness. There was nothing more.
After that she knew that Marie had been right. What could she do? One night, lying awake in bed, she suddenly remembered an infusion, effective for colds and for colic, which Brother Jean had warned her must not be given to pregnant women as it had been known to cause miscarriages. Perhaps, if she took some now, it would solve her terrible problem. A being which was the product of two mortal sins deserved to be flushed out, destroyed: it would not be a crime but a victory. Soothed by this thought, she slept.
Early the next morning, despite being racked with the usual nausea, Catherine forced herself to leave her bed and get dressed. She didn’t trouble to wait for Marie to help her. She had no intention of telling the servant what she planned to do. Not for the first time, she wished it was possible to get to the courtyard without going through the Hall. Luckily, she saw no-one that mattered – just a few scullions and men-at-arms who greeted her respectfully.
In the still room where her medicines were kept, she rummaged desperately amongst the bottles, phials and jars which still lined the shelves. They were dusty and the writing on the labels had faded – it was weeks since she had been down here. Some of the contents would have spoiled and should be discarded. Some day, when she was better, she would do that. At last, having checked each shelf at least twice, she gave up. It didn’t really surprise her. Usually she had brewed medicines freshly as the need arose. She would have to go to her herb garden and find the plant. It was a kind of mint. Would it have died away so late in the year? She sincerely hoped not.
When she returned to her room, Catherine had to be sick again.
“Poor lady,” Marie said, taking the basin from her. “You shouldn’t have left your bed.”
“I’m all right,” Catherine muttered. “Now find my cloak and a pair of stout shoes. I’m going out.”
“I’ll get mine too.”
“No. I’m going alone. I’m only going to the church.”
“But what if you should feel ill on the way?”
“Then I’ll be sick into a bush. For God’s sake, Marie, stop fussing.”
“You should be careful, my lady, for the child’s sake.”
“There is no child, Marie. I told you.”
“Very well, my lady,” Marie said with a disapproving sniff.
This time, when she reached the courtyard, Yon was there. He was holding the big grey stallion which Catherine remembered had been ridden by Raoul the day they went to Melgorn. It must have found its own way back to the castle. What a pity. Bile surged into her mouth and, unable to stop herself, she vomited helplessly onto the cobble-stones.
“Catherine, what’s wrong? What can I do?”
Yon had rushed across to her. She straightened up and glared at him, wiping her mouth with her kerchief.
“Nothing at all. You’re no friend of mine.”
“Catherine, truly, I...”
“If you want to help me you’ll stay out of my sight.”
Angrily she turned her back on him and walked swiftly towards the gate-house. She felt so much anger: with Yon, with herself – how humiliating to be sick like that in public – but most of with Raoul whose fault it all was.
“Lower the foot-bridge.”
“May I ask where you are going, my lady?” the guard asked mildly. “I have orders that -”
“Damn your orders. Kindly do as I say.”
“Yes, my lady.”
He began to let the bridge down and Catherine waited impatiently, aware that Yon remained in the courtyard behind her and that presumably Raoul himself would be the
re in a moment to ride the saddled grey.
“I’m merely going to church,” she said to the guard. “I assume your orders still permit people to pray?”
“Of course, my lady. I thought perhaps someone should go with you.”
“That is quite unnecessary.”
Hearing voices behind her, she almost ran across the bridge as soon as it was lowered. It had been bad enough seeing Yon – to see de Metz would be unbearable.
Walking rapidly, she reached the church without being over-taken and without having to be sick again. As it was now November, many of her plants looked sad and withered. She had been there so little in the early autumn that weeds had grown unchecked in some of the beds and other rampant growers had over-run their allotted spaces. It was a mess, a disgrace. Catherine felt ashamed of her neglect of the once trim and productive garden. Had she been less concerned with finding one plant, she might have tidied it a little. As it was, she resolved to do so another day – before the winter storms prevented any outdoor activity.
Walking rapidly to a bed on the left, she searched anxiously for what she wanted. Yes, here it was: a little dry, perhaps but hopefully still efficacious – there were still quite a lot of the small oval leaves, rather less bright than they had been, and even a few withered mauve flowers. She pulled handful after handful, half uprooting one of the plants in her urgent haste.
“What are you doing?” said a stern voice.
Catherine started, almost dropping the plants, and swung round. Father Alain was standing behind her, his face grim and unsmiling.
“Oh, Father, you frightened me!” she exclaimed.
“I asked you what you were doing, Catherine. You still haven’t answered.”
“I’d have thought it was obvious,” Catherine said with a forced laugh. “Everything is so overgrown.”
“What plant is that?”
“This?” She managed to look puzzled. “A variety of mint. I thought I might brew a beer with it – my stomach’s been upset.”
“Let me see.”
“It’s nothing special.”
The priest took a sprig and examined it.
“I know quite well what you are intending to do, Catherine,” he said after a moment, “and I absolutely forbid it. I’m not a skilled herbalist like you but I know this plant’s properties well enough. Please come into the house – I have something to say to you.”
“No, Father, I won’t. I know what you’ll say: that I can’t go to the Holy Sisters when I have a child – and that to bear it is God’s will. I can’t do that, Father, I can’t. The child of such a union would be a monster! I can’t let it live.”
“My child, to take a life, any life, is a mortal sin. To sin yourself does not undo others’ sins. It is not the babe’s fault that it was conceived out of wedlock and without love.”
“Through a brother’s rape of his sister?”
“We do not know that for certain.”
“I know.”
“Catherine, on pain of excommunication I forbid you to do anything which might harm the living being whom you carry in your womb. We may not interfere with Nature and God’s Law – we do not have that right.”
For a moment, clutching the plants to her, Catherine glared at Father Alain defiantly. Then, suddenly overcome with weariness and a renewed upsurge of sickness, she let them fall to the ground.
“Very well,” she said bleakly. “If I have no choice, I put myself in His hands and yours. I just hope He lets me die before I have to see its monstrous face.”
She leaned over and retched onto the leaf-strewn soil.
“My poor child,” the priest said more kindly, putting an arm round her shoulders. “Come inside and I will ask Madame Muzillac to brew a tisane to strengthen you.”
“No. I must get back.”
“I’ll walk with you, then.”
Taking her arm, he led her from the garden. She allowed him to support her, too tired to care what he said or what he did. Now that her one plan had been thwarted, all she wanted to do was to reach the solid sanctuary of her own chamber, to crawl into her bed and to sleep for ever.
“Father!” It was a man on horseback who called. Both he and his horse were dishevelled and mud-splattered. “I’ve letters for you!”
“Good!” the priest exclaimed. “I was hoping you’d get here soon. Go into the house and tell my house-keeper to find you food and drink. I must see this lady safely to the castle and then I shall be happy to read whatever you have brought.”
The man saluted and rode away.
“I may be able to bring you good news shortly,” Father Alain told Catherine as they walked on.
“What news can there be that I might find good?”
“We’ll see, my dear. I’ll say nothing now. I don’t wish to raise your hopes falsely.”
“Father, believe me, I have no hopes at all,” Catherine said.
The following day, Catherine was lying in bed with the curtains drawn, her mind almost numbed by the torpor that seemed to have enveloped her since she had stumbled back into the castle courtyard. The future was a blank. As far as she could tell there was nothing which she could do to preserve her honour. She could not now enter a convent: they did not welcome bastards there. She had no role here in Radenoc and obviously no-one would marry her. Perhaps death would release her from her pain as it had her mother – but she had suffered for years before God had had mercy on her – and she at least had been a wife and her surviving babies were legitimate.
There was a knock on the door.
“It’s Father Alain, my lady,” Marie said. “He wants to speak to you.”
“Let him come in,” Catherine said with a sigh. She struggled into a sitting position and waited.
“Could we speak alone, Catherine?” the priest said, parting the curtain on one side of the bed. “I do not wish to discuss this with anyone but you.”
“Yes. I don’t mind. Off you go, Marie.”
“Can I bring you anything, my lady?”
“No. I need nothing. You can bar the door behind her if you wish to, Father.”
“That is unnecessary.”
He drew back the curtain and sat down on the side of the bed, taking Catherine’s hand.
“My dear, I learn from my letters that matters are not nearly as grave as you feared.”
“What do you mean? What have your letters to do with me?”
“They have a great deal to do with you.”
“You have heard from Gilles, is that it? He has told you that Simon is alive and well?”
“No, my dear. It’s not that.”
“Well I can’t imagine what else -”
“Raoul de Metz is not your half-brother, Catherine. There was a rape, yes, but no incest. You need not be afraid of your child’s parentage.”
It took a few moments for Catherine to absorb what he had said. When she did, she felt a wave of relief.
“Thank God,” she said, crossing herself. “Who is he, then? Why does he use our name?”
“His grandmother is Eleanor de Metz, widow of baron Henri of Radenoc who died nearly fifty years ago.”
“Oh my God,” Catherine whispered, remembering what Armand had told her. The priest was still speaking but the story he told was already familiar.
“Eleanor had a son, Robert, who was killed by assassins at the castle of Valsemé in Normandy where she had fled when she left Radenoc. It seems the villains, knowing nothing of his son Raoul’s existence, left him alive.”
“But this Raoul was a minstrel, a penniless Crusader. Eleanor of Normandy knighted and ennobled him. How can he be the grandson of the former baron?”
“Because of what happened to Robert, Eleanor was terrified for Raoul’s safety and kept him closely protected – more closely than an adventurous sixteen year old could bear. When a troupe of travelling players came to Valsemé, he seized his chance and ran away with them, flooding the land around his home to prevent pursuit. The rest we know.”
“How have you found all this out?” Catherine asked. “Are you sure? Not that it really matters.” Although she said this, she felt, somehow, that it did.
“From these.” He drew several sheets of vellum from his pouch. “This letter,” he handed a sheet to Catherine, “is from Valsemé, written on behalf of Lady Eleanor de Metz – it contains an account of her flight from Radenoc and subsequent events as I have told them to you. This one is from Bertrand de Courcy who, with Raoul, visited Lady Eleanor after they returned from the Holy Land. This last is from the Duchess of Normandy. They prove Raoul’s birth beyond dispute. You are not his half-sister, you are his second cousin. As there is no question of consanguinity, I suggest that you accept his offer of marriage.”
“What?” Catherine gasped. “I can’t, not now! In any case I very much doubt if his offer is still open.”
“Why not? Catherine, what have you said to him?”
She gave a wild laugh which turned into a sob. “It’s not so much what I’ve said!”
“What have you done?”
“I can’t tell you, Father. Don’t ask me. In any case, nothing came of it – but I hardly think that it has endeared me to him.”
“We’re not talking about a love-match,” the priest said sternly. “He, I imagine, is still eager to make reparation for a heinous crime; you, I would have thought, would wish to give your child a name – especially as, if it’s a son, it would obviously be the next Lord of Radenoc. You have complained of having no chance to make your mark in the world: this marriage would give you that.”
“But I hate him, Father,” Catherine said, lying back against her pillows, suddenly exhausted. “And I’m sure he must hate me.”
“Catherine, let me speak to him. If his offer is still open, at least promise that you will consider it.”
“Very well,” she said, convinced that it would not be. “I promise.”
But to her horrified surprise, it was. Having spoken to Raoul, Father Alain returned to her room a very short time later.
“He was shocked about the child and most anxious to protect its future,” the priest explained.
“I see,” Catherine said dully. “I suppose in that case I have no choice.”
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