“I’m sure you will grow fond of him, in time. He truly is a good man with the interests of the barony close to his heart. Believe me.”
“If you say so, Father.”
Marie, when she heard what Catherine had reluctantly agreed to do, was outraged.
“You can’t!” she exclaimed. “What? Let that murdering foreign bastard be your husband? My lady, you must be mad!”
“Not mad, Marie – tired, sick, and desperate. What else can I do?”
“I’d fling myself off the castle walls sooner!”
“I sometimes wish I could. Listen, will you go to Lanhalles and ask Edain to come and see me? I want to talk to her. If there is anything else I could do, she’ll know.”
“Of course I will, my lady. Or I could send that idle brother of mine – he’s another bloody turn-coat, licking the Norman’s boots.”
“I don’t care who goes, Marie. I just want to see Edain soon – before it’s too late.”
It was proposed that the wedding would take place on Saturday, merely four days away.
Catherine, in the meanwhile, refused to see anyone, including her future husband. Eventually, on Friday night, Marie brought the fisher-woman to Catherine’s chamber.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Catherine said, dismissing Marie then hugging Edain. “I’d almost given up hope.”
“I wouldn’t ‘ave come ‘ere for anyone but you,” Edain said. “I’ve never set foot ‘ere before – an’ I don’t suppose I will again. So, let me look at you...” She turned Catherine’s face to the light. “Tut, tut. What you been at, child?”
“Edain, I’ve been so sick. It’s been terrible.”
“That’s what she said – your wench that came to me. I’ve brought you summat that’ll help. Where’s a cup? This’ll put new heart into you; get you through the morrow without you vomiting in your marriage bed.”
She took a flask from her pocket and pulled the cork out with her teeth.
“Have I got to go through with this, Edain?” Catherine said, clutching the woman’s arm. “Is there nothing else I can do? Could I not go to Ile Yoc’h or...?”
“No, Catherine. I could ‘ave told you when I seen you before – it’s writ in the stars – he’s your man, no doubt of it. You must make the best of it.”
“But I hate him.”
“The more fool you. Most wenches’d die for ‘im – like I said.” She grinned and held the cup out to Catherine. “Here, have a drink of this now, and another in the morning. It’ll make you feel better and if you shut your eyes tight while he does ‘is business, you can pretend he’s someone else – you wouldn’t be the first wife to do that an’ you won’t be the last.”
Catherine silently took the cup and gulped down the bitter brew. If Edain said she must do it, she must. There was obviously no way out.
The next morning, for the first time in many days, Catherine’s nausea had gone. She was able to eat a little bread and even enjoy it. Marie, looking through the chests and coffers to find suitable clothes, continued to mutter about Raoul’s villainy and treachery. Eventually, Catherine had had enough.
“Marie, if you’re going to carry on like this I think you’d better go back to your parents in Kerhouazoc.”
The woman stopped in mid-curse and gaped at Catherine.
“I agree with everything you are saying but it does not help. How am I going to bear my fate if you remind me constantly how loathsome my husband is?” Catherine felt tears rising.
“Oh, my lady, I’m sorry.”
“If you don’t stop I shall have to find someone else to serve me and let you go.”
“Please don’t do that. Radenoc’s my home. Besides, those of us who hate the Norman bastard should stick together.”
“Marie, I agree.” There was no point in telling Marie that he was neither Norman nor a bastard. “But I’ll be his wife. However much I detest him, I’ll have to try to be civil and to obey him. It will be my duty.” Tears of self-pity were rolling down her face.
“My poor sweet lady, don’t you cry. I won’t say another word and I’ll always be there to comfort you. Whatever we have to do, we’ll stay loyal and true to our good Lord Gilles; and silently, in our hearts, we’ll pray for his safe return.”
Marie put comforting arms round her mistress but Catherine’s tears had dried and she found that there was nothing she could say. How could she tell Marie that she feared and loathed her brother only slightly less than the man she was about to marry? The thought of his return filled her, if anything, with even more dread.
“I’m not wearing that,” Catherine declared flatly a few minutes later as Marie smoothed the creases out of a shimmering over-dress of cream Damascene silk.
“But Sévrine told me years ago that this was your mother’s wedding gown and that it had been her dearest wish that you should wear it when you married.”
“Well I won’t. It doesn’t matter what I wear. Here give me the green – it will do.”
Catherine was already wearing a close-fitting, narrow-sleeved gown of almost white wool. She pulled the velvet tunic over her head and straightened it.
“Which belt?” Marie said sullenly.
“Any – the one there with the bronze clasp. And you’re not unbraiding my hair. I’ll wear it like this, with a veil.”
“But my lady, you can’t. It’s a wedding! What will people think?”
“I should imagine they all know already that I’m not a virgin. Why should I care? The service is being held in the chapel here anyway – only castle folk will see me.”
A few minutes later, seeing that Marie appeared to be genuinely upset, Catherine relented.
“Very well,” she said. “You can brush out my hair – but I’m not changing my mind about the veil.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Father Alain’s waiting for you in the solar, my lady,” said the messenger. “I’m to escort you down.”
“Very well. I’m coming.”
Feeling extremely apprehensive and shaky, Catherine waited while the door was unbarred then she followed the young man down to the room below. He was a tall, slender fellow with light brown hair. She didn’t recall having previously seen him. Before she had a chance to ask his name, the priest came forward and embraced her.
“You look wonderful, my dear – like a winter angel! And I have something for you which will complete the picture.”
Before Catherine could protest, he had removed the circlet which secured her veil and then the veil itself, setting a wreath of glossy dark green leaves and white flowers on her unbound hair.
“This plucky plant has flowers when others have gone to sleep: they make you a perfect garland.”
“Oh, my lady!” Marie exclaimed. “You look so beautiful. If only you were not...”
She caught Catherine’s eye and lapsed into silence.
“Come along now, my dear. Your bride groom is waiting.”
The priest took her arm and led her through the Hall and up the steps to the chapel. Just a few members of the household were waiting there, Guillaume Rénard being one. Raoul was already kneeling at the altar. As Catherine approached, he looked up at her and smiled. As she met his eyes, her breath seemed to catch in her throat and her head swam. For a second she was afraid that she would faint again. Then he took her hand and she managed to look away and steady herself.
The service began. Raoul made his responses in a firm, clear voice. Catherine’s were in a hoarse whisper. Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, he was putting a heavy emerald ring onto her finger and Father Alain was announcing jovially that Raoul might to kiss his wife. Catherine froze but his lips merely brushed her cheek then he took her arm to lead her down to the wedding feast set out in the Hall below.
“I’m surprised you wanted to have a celebration,” Catherine said, speaking to him directly for the first time as she took her seat in one of the two great carved chairs at the centre of the high table.
&
nbsp; “Are you? Why?” He took his place by her side and filled the cup they were to share. “I have a victory to celebrate, as well as a wedding.”
He gestured to the musicians to begin – they were simple folk, from Kerhouazoc, playing simple traditional instruments. What they lacked in skill, they attempted to make up for in gusto. The castle folk loved it, stamping, clapping and thumping their cups on the board. The noise grated on Catherine’s nerves and her head began to ache.
She was constantly aware of the man at her side and desperately attempted to avoid touching him. But, as was customary, they shared not only a wine-cup, but a trencher. Raoul was slicing meats for her, offering her sauces. She ate hardly anything but managed to drink two cupfuls of the strong red wine. When at last the food was cleared away and bowls were brought for washing, Catherine flinched when their fingers accidentally met in the warm water.
“Will you dance with me, Catherine?” he asked her as the musicians struck up another even livelier tune.
“I can’t,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Choose someone else.”
“Do you think I would shame you? If you won’t dance, I won’t either – though it’s a pity.”
Others had leaped to their feet enthusiastically and soon the Hall was full pounding feet, swirling skirts and joyful laughter.
“I can’t stay here much longer, my lord,” Catherine said after what seemed like hours. “I am feeling unwell.”
The nausea had not returned but her headache had grown almost unbearable.
“Of course. I’m sorry – I’ve been thoughtless.”
He stood and clapped his hands for silence.
“My friends,” he said, “thank you for coming here today. My wife...” There were cheers and whistles. “...is feeling rather tired so while you continue to enjoy the music and the drink, we shall retire.” There was another noisy chorus of hoots and laughing comments.
Catherine’s cheeks burned.
“Before we go, however, I ask you to drink with me to the lady by my side. Friends, raise your cups to Lady Catherine de Metz – may she have long life and happiness!”
From all round the Hall, they shouted her name. She glanced at Raoul and wished she hadn’t. His eyes were resting on her and something in their green depths deeply disturbed her. Her heart thumped and she looked quickly away. Behind Catherine, Marie now appeared and Raoul spoke quietly to her. Nodding, she came forward to the arm of her mistress’s chair. Catherine stood up nervously. Were all of these people going to lead her, with songs and crude jests, up to the chamber she must share with her new husband? It was the custom, she knew. The women would strip her naked and bundle her into bed while the men did the same with Raoul. They’d then wait outside the bed-curtains listening and shouting advice while he ravished her. She felt a surge of panic.
“It’s all right,” Raoul murmured. “There’ll be no ribaldry or horse-play. I guessed you wouldn’t like it. Marie will take you up. I’ll join you in a few minutes. Don’t be afraid.”
“Oh. Very well.” She knew she should thank him but could not bring herself to say the words.
She took Marie’s arm and the two women slipped out through the curtained archway.
“That was decent of him, I must say,” Marie said grudgingly as she helped Catherine to undress.
Catherine’s belongings had been brought up to the Western tower and her chests and coffers were neatly ranged round the walls. She couldn’t help remembering the last time she had been there – though many changes had been made since then. All of Gilles’s stuff had been removed, of course. The rushes were fresh and strewed with fragrant herbs – rosemary and lavender, she thought. There was a colourful hanging on one wall, several thick candles on tall iron stands and a number of books were piled on the big oak table where pens and parchment also lay. A folding screen stood between the windows, allowing a degree of privacy, should one demand it. A cheerful fire was burning and both the fur covers and the bed-curtains looked new. The wooden shutters were tightly shut to keep out drafts.
Despite the room’s cosiness, Catherine shivered as she climbed into the bed wearing her thin linen shift.
“You may leave me now, Marie. Thank you.”
“God bless you, my lady,” the woman said, fear and dread in her eyes as she bent to kiss her mistress goodnight.
Catherine held her tightly for a moment then forced herself to let her go. Determinedly, she lay back against the pillows, her heart thumping wildly. There were footsteps on the tower stairs – here was her husband.
“Catherine,” Raoul said, as he opened the door, “this is Jean-Paul d’Auray, my squire.”
Catherine looked up startled. It hardly fitted into what she was expecting. Jean-Paul was the young man who had come for her earlier that day.
“I hope you have no objections if he continues to serve me here,” Raoul continued.
The young man was bowing respectfully. Had she not been so terrified, Catherine might almost have laughed. She was hardly in a position to return his courtesy.
“No,” she said faintly.
“Your woman will obviously be your own personal attendant,” Raoul was saying, “but Jean-Paul may be useful to you. He can run errands, take messages, whatever you wish. He will serve you as faithfully as he would me. And between us, we must try to keep him busy. It won’t do if he is idle or bored. Will it, Jean-Paul?”
Raoul had extinguished all but one candle and as he talked, the young man was assisting him to remove his sword belt, his long pale tunic, his boots. It was almost as if he was chatting to try and put Catherine at her ease. When Raoul began to remove his undershirt, Catherine hastily shut her eyes.
“Go now,” Raoul said to the young man. “If the jollities below grow excessive, speak to Guillaume Rénard. There are two guards by the tower door to ensure that we are not disturbed. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, my lord. Goodnight, my lady.”
Eyes still tightly shut, Catherine somehow managed to reply.
She heard Raoul fit the bar across the door and smelt the acrid smoke as the last candle was extinguished. He approached the bed and her body tensed. She felt the covers lift and the mattress shifted with his weight. She bit her lip, trembling.
“Goodnight, Catherine,” he said softly.
Her eyes flew open and she looked towards him, hardly daring to believe what seemed to be happening. He was lying on his side, his back towards her – as far away from her in the bed as it was possible to be. Incredulous, she raised herself on one elbow. His eyes were shut, his breathing even – he was going to sleep! He didn’t intend to touch her! She lay down again, wide-eyed in the fire-lit darkness. She should be relieved; she should even feel grateful. Why was it, then, that part of her felt...cheated?
Chapter Seventeen
Late the following morning, Catherine was sitting on one of the window-seats in the tower room. The shutters were folded back, letting in a steam of cold crisp air and the salty tang of the sea. Catherine’s sewing was in her hands, but she wasn’t looking at it. Instead she was watching the man whom she had married.
Raoul was seated at the oak table, writing. It had been a strange experience for Catherine, waking up next to this stranger. He had behaved as if it was the most natural thing in the world – perhaps, for him, it was – and that had helped Catherine to deal with her own acute embarrassment. He had cheerfully summoned Jean Paul who had brought hot water for them both and then the squire had fetched Marie. Raoul had chatted inconsequentially to Jean Paul throughout the routine of shaving and dressing. Marie, stiff with disapproval, had retired with Catherine behind the folding screen while assisting her mistress to wash and dress, maintaining a stony silence throughout.
What had amazed Catherine was the easy familiarity between Jean Paul and his master. The squire was not required to stand on ceremony, it seemed. Raoul frequently laughed at his comments and ribbed him light-heartedly about a girl who had her eye on him, he said. Once they were bot
h dressed, bread, ale and cold meat were brought to the chamber by a page so that the married couple could break their fast together privately.
Once they were alone, Catherine found herself overwhelmed with shyness and embarrassment again. She still did not feel nauseous but she found it almost impossible to eat. Raoul did not appear to notice. He was explaining to her how grateful he was to his friend Bertrand, the Count of Morbihan, who had kindly sent Jean Paul to him – the squire had been with a household in Morbihan but had been born in the western part of Brittany, in Léon. His father’s manor was up north, somewhere near St. Pol. Unfortunately, all too soon, the lad would be winning his spurs and Raoul would have to find someone else.
Almost without realising it, Catherine found herself telling Raoul which barons were under Léon’s rule, where their castles were and who was allied with whom, because of marriage or family connections.
When the page came to remove the dishes, Catherine felt almost at ease. It had not seemed necessary to collect her work and retire immediately to the solar. Instead, she had opened the shutter, seated herself by the window, and remained. As if aware that she was watching him, Raoul turned his head towards her and smiled. She hastily looked down at the sewing in her lap. Only when she heard the scratch of his pen resume did she dare to look up again.
How did she feel about him? She wasn’t sure. It seemed hard to believe that this courteous, civil man was the same one who had violated her. He didn’t even look the same. Perhaps he was making a special effort because of his wedding but far from being foul-smelling and unkempt, this man was clean, richly dressed, well groomed. Could she grow accustomed to him, even, one day perhaps...like him?
As the thought passed through her mind, a sudden savage pain twisted her belly. She gasped and cried out.
“What’s wrong?”
Raoul dropped his pen and leaped to his feet.
“Fetch Marie!” Catherine groaned, doubling up. “Quickly!”
Looking back, she could hardly remember what followed. She knew that women had appeared, that she had been stripped, bundled into bed, given potions to drink. The pain seemed to have got her in its grip like some savage beast with its prey. She felt as if she were shut away in a cave of red darkness, forced to do battle with it as it tore at her entrails. Eventually, after what seemed like a life-time, a respite came and Catherine became aware of her surroundings once more.
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