“It’s all over now, my lady,” said Marie’s voice.
She opened her eyes. The tower room was lit by two flickering candles. It must be night time then.
“Raoul?” she said faintly.
“It’s all right. We’ve told him to keep out of the way. He won’t be troubling you tonight.”
“What’s happened? I feel... empty.”
“Yes, my lady, that’s right.” Marie sat on the bed and took Catherine’s hand. “You’re rid of it.” She sounded pleased.
Suddenly afraid, Catherine gripped Marie’s hand tightly, half sitting up.
“Do you mean...? Do you mean that I’ve lost my baby?”
“Yes, madam. The foul thing’s gone, thank God.”
“Oh, no!” A choking wave of misery swept through Catherine’s heart. “Oh, how could this happen to me – now that I’ve married him?”
Tears overcame her. Pushing Marie away, she curled up in the bed and sobbed broken-heartedly.
The following morning Catherine lay there, drained of all feeling except for a dull ache which could have belonged either to her body or her mind. She heard the door open.
“Catherine?” It was Raoul’s voice.
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.
“I’m very sorry,” he said quietly. He was unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed.
“I expect you are.” Her tone was bitter. “It would have been your heir.”
He frowned, angry or hurt.
“I suppose you’re pleased,” he said.
“To be rid of the consequence of your rape? Obviously.”
Raoul’s fists clenched.
Finding something like pleasure in wounding him, Catherine continued, “It’s just a pity it didn’t happen before you married me, isn’t it? Never mind. I expect Father Alain can arrange an annulment.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I would not have married you if I’d had any other alternative.”
“I know.”
He turned away and walked over to the window where he unfastened the shutters. From far below the surge of the waves could be heard and there was the plaintive mewing cry of a gull. Catherine found her tears rising again. She had thought she had exhausted them last night. She mustn’t let him see. She dug her nails fiercely into her palms.
“I’ll move back to my old room as soon as I’m strong enough,” she said.
“If you wish.” He kept his back turned towards her.
“Or perhaps you’d rather have me shut in the North tower. That’s what my father did to my mother – for twenty-two years.”
“I remember your mother,” Raoul said to Catherine’s surprise. She wasn’t expecting him to change the subject. “She was a brave lady. Did the child she was carrying die?”
“Simon? No. He’s with Gilles now so I don’t know what’s become of him. He was alive and well two months ago.”
“I didn’t even know you had another brother.”
“Marie was his nurse but my mother left him in my care.”
“You must be very fond of him.”
“I am. And he’s fond of me. The night that Gilles came back, when Bellec tried to...he...I...” The tears that she had been able to repress when thinking of her own loss now overwhelmed her at the thought of poor Simon’s plucky defence.
“I suppose you hold me responsible for that too.”
He had come to stand at the foot of the bed. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
“Yes,” she sobbed, realising that it was, of course, the truth – it was his fault. “I do.”
He said nothing and didn’t move but Catherine had the impression, glancing up at him, that he had himself rigorously under control. Stupidly she found herself wishing that he would put his arms round her and hold her – that she would feel comforted by his warmth and his strength. How could she think such a thing when she hated him?
“I’ll leave you now,” he said after a while. “If you wish, I’ll sleep elsewhere until you are well.”
“Do as you please,” Catherine replied, turning over on her side and burying her face in the pillow.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment and then she heard him leave.
That night, although she made sure that she gave no hint to Raoul, she was not sorry when he returned to the tower room, accompanied by Jean Paul.
For the next week, Catherine stayed in bed most of the time. Physically, she was recovering but she still felt utterly weary, utterly lethargic and empty inside. Sometimes, wrapped in one of the furs from the bed, she would curl up on the window seat by the open window, listening to the wailing cries of the gulls, feeding her misery. It was such a melancholy, such a lonely sound. Marie would come in and scold her.
“It’s freezing in here,” she would say, slamming the shutters and urging her mistress to get back into bed.
Catherine had a nagging worry that it had been the potion which Edain had given her which had caused her to lose her child. She let another week pass, during which she dressed and attempted to return at least partially to castle life, before deciding to set out for Lanhalles.
Jean Paul came up to her in the courtyard where she was waiting for her horse to be saddled.
“Are you going out, my lady? May I come with you?” he asked.
Catherine frowned. Had Raoul sent him to spy on her?
“Won’t your master need you?” she asked.
“A messenger came from Beauchamp and so he has paper-work to attend to,” the squire said with a grimace. “He told me to exercise Hercules so I’d be glad to ride with you, if I may.”
“Oh yes, why not?” Catherine said. It would be pleasant to have company.
Before long, they were on the road, heading for the sea.
“Do you enjoy working for Lord de Metz?” Catherine asked, letting the squire ride alongside her.
“Yes and no,” he answered with a laugh.
“Please explain.”
“I joined him when all the fighting was done. Unless there’s a tournament or something I haven’t a chance of earning my spurs. When I was younger, Tréguier and Morbihan were always being attacked by Léon’s forces – when the old baron ruled, of course. Now they’re all friends and there’s nothing exciting to do.”
“Do you like Lord Raoul?” She couldn’t resist asking him.
“Yes indeed, my lady. With Baron Collinée it was all very formal – rules and protocol and rigid discipline – he’d never let you speak to him! And if you did one thing in the wrong order, you’d get a flogging. Lord Raoul treats you almost like a friend – but you still respect him. You know that if you’re loyal to him, he’ll reward you and value you. Lord Bertrand told me that he was terribly upset about what happened to Etienne de Montglane.”
“Who is he?”
Catherine found that she was curious to know more as the name seemed faintly familiar to her.
“He was...” He broke off. Jean Paul had gone red and was looking uncomfortable. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about this to you.”
“It’s all right,” Catherine told him. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“He was his last squire. Someone murdered him but only after -”
“That’s enough,” Catherine interrupted him. “I know who you mean now. I didn’t know what his name was, that’s all.” In her mind she heard again the noises, that terrible cry. She forced the memory away. “How was he captured, do you know?”
“He and Lord Bertrand’s squire tried to get into the enemy camp to find out their plans. They got caught, of course. It was a silly prank.”
“Which cost them their lives. And Lord Raoul was angry?”
“Almost out of his mind, so they say.”
They had reached the fishing hamlet so Catherine said nothing more as they dismounted and tethered the horses.
Many of the women, including Edain, were working in the new smoke-house. Catherine introduced Jean Paul who was given a drink and warmly welcomed.
“Is married life suiting you?” Edain called cheerfully, walking over to her while wiping her hands on a grubby cloth. When she reached her she stopped, running a critical eye over her. “You look poorly – or is it lack of sleep?”
“I lost the child,” Catherine blurted out, her anxieties allayed by the older woman’s shocked cry.
“You poor lamb!” Edain exclaimed, gathering Catherine into her arms.
On the ride back to Radenoc, Catherine did not encourage the squire to talk to her. He fell a little behind, leaving her to her thoughts. Edain had assumed that, after she had fully recovered, Catherine would merely conceive again. She did not tell her that she expected the marriage to end, and soon. She had said nothing about going to the convent in Locronan – in fact she had not even mentioned it to Father Alain when he had visited her. Neither Edain nor the priest knew, though, that Raoul had not touched her on her wedding night – if he had, it might have been different. Catherine knew that it wasn’t simply that she didn’t want him, he didn’t want her either.
She almost expected that when she returned to the castle, her clothes and other belongings would have been removed from the tower room. She even went to her old room, to check. It was still empty. Catherine didn’t know whether she felt sorry or relieved.
As was often the case, as November became December, the weather worsened dramatically. The room in the Western Tower became noisy and draughty as the winds buffeted the shutters and screamed through the tiniest gaps in the wood. By day, both Catherine and Raoul often sought refuge in the solar. They were joined sometimes by other members of the household such as Father Alain, Guillaume Rénard, a man called Maurice Leclerc who had become Raoul’s steward, Jean Paul, Marie and most frequently, by Connell.
There were a number of days when Catherine sat in a corner, supposedly sewing by the light of a branch of flickering candles, but actually listening to the stories which Connell and Raoul were telling. They only talked about their life on the road when no-one else was present apart from Catherine. She suspected that they often forgot that she was there. They would sit roasting chestnuts over the fire and would reminisce about Laon and its new cathedral, about the Court of the French King, about Paris, and about the enchanted forests of the Huelgoat. There were stories about the troupe: Cof, Pol, Jean, Damona and old Daniel and Maeve whom Catherine soon realised were Connell’s parents. She almost felt she knew them herself. They would sometimes discuss a strange sounding man called Mathurin, at whose chapel both seemed to have spent time recovering from sickness. For a while, when they talked about Gwen, Catherine thought it was a woman they were speaking of – eventually she discovered that Gwen was a hawk, or to be exact a merlin, which Raoul had left in Connell’s care years ago.
Sometimes, instead of talking, they would tell a tale or speak the parts, between the two of them, of one of the plays which they used to stage. Connell had been too young to be a performer in many of them but he still knew the words. To Catherine it was as if the players had come back again. She could shut her eyes and imagine the settings and all the actions. For a while she could almost recapture the delight she had felt all those years ago and Raoul almost became ‘Tristan’ again, although she tried hard to deny that, even to herself.
Before the storms had begun, Connell had made himself a pipe. On this he could play a huge repertoire of tunes – some jolly, suitable for dancing and merry-making, others wistful and haunting. She suspected that he had invented some of the melodies himself. Sometimes he simply played an accompaniment while Raoul sang – invariably melancholy love songs which filled Catherine with loneliness and obscure longings. Usually she would try to slip out of the room when that happened, afraid that she would give herself away.
As Christmas began to draw near, Catherine realised that her body had fully recovered from what had happened. She had intended, weeks ago, to move from the tower room before eventually leaving Radenoc altogether. Somehow time had slipped by and she had never done so. She did not know if Raoul had mentioned an annulment to the priest. She had not done so. If she was to continue to live with Raoul as his wife, perhaps she should force herself to fulfil her physical duties. She would like to have a child. Perhaps if she was able to pretend that he was Tristan, she could endure the act which might create one – after all, that was what Edain had suggested. Should she tell him, therefore, that she was well again?
During all of the time they had been married, though, he had never once touched her. How would she feel if, when she told him that she wanted a child, he said that he did not – because he had no desire for her? She tried to assess his behaviour towards her. He was always pleasant, polite and considerate but was also rather distant and formal – he never joked with her as he did with Jean Paul and Connell. Catherine felt she knew his squire better than she knew him. Indeed, apart from personal feminine requirements, Catherine made use of the squire’s service in preference to Marie’s – the woman became grumpier every day. Catherine had even found herself laughing one day at a silly anecdote that Jean Paul was telling her. Raoul had been present, she remembered, and he had looked up from the papers he was reading and had smiled at her. She had felt like a foolish girl caught out in some prank by an indulgent uncle. Yes, that was how it seemed. It was as if he quite liked her but kept a huge, insurmountable barrier between them at all times. Fortunately for him, the bed which they shared was wide enough for them to leave a two foot gap in the middle, like a chasm, which neither might cross. Once, horrified, she had woken up to find herself pressed up against his naked back. She had hurriedly rolled away, relieved that he had been asleep and hadn’t noticed.
A week before Christmas, the weather became calm again and once or twice, the sun appeared. On Christmas Eve, her doubts still unresolved, Catherine walked over to the church, gathering some evergreens on the way.
Father Alain greeted her warmly and helped her to fix the green boughs in suitable places round the little church.
“Are you happier now, Catherine?” he asked her. “I see the roses are returning to your cheeks.”
“Physically I’m better, yes,” she said. “But whether I’m happier, I don’t know.” Should she ask him now about the convent?
“I hear that Lord Raoul’s good friend is to marry.”
“Who is that?”
“Catherine, I’m surprised at you. I thought you’d have been making the bride a wedding gift. Bertrand de Courcy, Count of Morbihan, is to wed a young woman called Anne – she’s a cousin of his first wife, I believe.”
“You’re a gossip, Father,” said Catherine with a smile. “You should have been born a woman.”
“Well, I envy you women the companionship of marriage, I must say. Mine is a lonely road.”
“Nonsense, Father. Everyone loves you.”
But she felt, after that, that she could say nothing about leaving her own husband.
When she returned to the castle, she found everything in turmoil.
“Whatever’s happening?” she asked Leclerc, as he bustled across the courtyard.
“Didn’t you know, my lady?” he said with a chuckle. “I expect Lord Raoul wanted to surprise you. There’s to be a feast tonight with dancing and roasted oxen and the Lord knows what else. All the villagers are coming and even some folk from Lanhalles, for a wonder. Now will you excuse me, my lady? There’s still so much to do.”
Feeling both excluded and in the way, Catherine retreated upstairs to the tower room.
“Jean Paul, did you know about this feast?” Catherine demanded crossly when the squire eventually appeared. Darkness had fallen long ago but no-one had come to tend the fire or light the candles. She had had to do both herself.
“Oh, yes, my lady. He’s had me flying round the country-side like a madman.”
“He obviously doesn’t want me to be there,” she said, suddenly close to tears.
“Of course he does,” Jean Paul said heartily, “I mean, he must, surely. Didn’t he say anything?”<
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Catherine shook her head and turned away, supposedly to check the catch on the shutter.
“Catherine, why are you not dressed?” Raoul, appearing in the doorway, sounded surprised and annoyed.
“Why should I be?” she snapped. “No-one’s told me anything about any of this.”
“Really, Catherine, that woman of yours is useless. I told her she should help you to get ready and then she could go down to see her family in Kerhouazoc. She’s obviously just gone without helping you at all. Jean Paul,” he turned to his squire, “how are you at dressing women’s hair? Please Catherine, put on your prettiest gown and come down to the solar as quickly as you can. Bring a warm cloak too as we’ll be going to the church – and then we must join those outside for a while; we can’t just stay snugly in the Hall.”
Before Catherine had a chance to ask him anything, he had gone.
“What should I wear?” Catherine said aloud then laughed at the squire’s look of comic bewilderment. “It’s all right – I don’t expect you to tell me!”
Her best gown was the amber one but was it suited to a Christmas feast? There was an odd feeling of excitement in the pit of her stomach as an idea suddenly came to her. She should wear the green gown, the one she had worn for her wedding.
“Don’t worry, Jean Paul, I can manage quite well on my own,” she said. “Perhaps you could brush out my hair, though.
She wouldn’t wear it unbound – that would be too blatant. She had a red ribbon somewhere. She would wear it tied back with that, like the village girls often did, and she’d leave off her veil.
It took some time before she was ready. Eventually she not only had the red ribbon in her hair, she had also found a red belt and a pair of red shoes tucked away in one of the chests.
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